


Send Me The Thorns

by PetraTodd



Series: Romance with Thorns [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, F/M, Oral Sex, Riding Crop, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/pseuds/PetraTodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Submissive Molly Hooper decides she's ready to pursue a sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes, but is he ready for her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"How does one politely go about asking a man to pull your hair?"

Molly Hooper had been considering this question for several minutes while cheerfully sanitizing instruments in the autoclave, one mellow night in the St. Bart's morgue. The day had been tedious, filled with paperwork headaches and bodies that presented no interesting challenges. It was on days like this that Molly's imagination wandered and she let fantasies make up for her lack of a sex life.

After the disaster that was Jim Moriarty, Molly was happy to take a break from making emotional connections. Dating a possibly gay criminal mastermind was a great excuse to avoid meeting the "sweet" and boring men that her friends kept offering to set her up with. Molly would rather stay home with Toby and a good book than make small talk with weak men who didn't like to talk about autopsies at dinner.

Last week at lunch, her best friend Barb had complained about her husband wanting to spice up their marriage by tying her up while they were having sex. Molly's face lit up and an "Oh, realllly?" slipped out before Molly realized that Barb was not happy about this development. Molly tucked her hair behind her ear, laughed awkwardly, and changed the subject to a fantastically strange boil that she'd seen on a body that day at Bart's.

The main problem with Molly's sex life was that every man paled in comparison to that clever and overwhelming Sherlock Holmes, with his dark poet's curls and hypnotic eyes and perfectly tailored pants. Oh, those pants. One time Sherlock was wearing snug black jeans when he came in to assess a murder victim, and Molly lost all coherent thought, and couldn't remember the patient's cause of death with the body in front of her. For weeks, Sherlock appeared in Molly's fantasies wearing nothing but those tight jeans.

When Sherlock left lab equipment in disarray, it should have angered her, but Molly took pleasure in helping him clean up. Actually he rarely helped. Sherlock would sit on the stool, peering into the microscope, still as stone, and occasionally inform Molly of which equipment he was done with. He would look up at her expectantly, with those hard mood-ring eyes, and Molly couldn't jump fast enough to dispose or sterilize or fetch whatever he wanted.

Molly did put her foot down when it came to him interfering with autopsies she was currently performing or her own research samples. It thrilled her to serve him in little ways with his cases, though. She loved it when Sherlock told her exactly what she had to do for him, in his clipped, precise way. That was her dirtiest secret. That's what felt really taboo to her.

That she, Dr. Molly Hooper, youngest staff pathologist St. Bart's had ever had, published in several journals, and happy feminist, loved being commanded by him, and wanted nothing so much as to be taken hard by this man whose brilliant mind turned her on more than charming banter from gentlemanly dates.

She wanted to feel those strong musician's fingers threading through her long hair, tugging, as he took her from behind relentlessly, flesh slapping together. Pulling carefully until her scalp tingled and her face flushed, while her hips rocked and begged for more pounding from Sherlock. Looking back at her man, seeing those curls wild, naked chest sweating, his icy eyes harsh and completely focused on owning her in that moment. That was her favorite fantasy.

Sometimes Molly would rest her palms on the cool edge of a counter in the lab, and imagine Sherlock coming up behind her late at night, and ordering her to keep her hands where they were.

Him unbuttoning her lab coat and her blouse slowly, spreading them open, pushing her bra material downward, while Molly's nipples grew taut from the sudden cold and tension.

His confident hands stroking the sensitive underside of her breasts, making her beg for a rougher touch, and then seeing the dark pinkness of her nipples sliding tightly between his slim white fingers.

Him completely in control, pinching and stroking her breasts, biting and sucking on her neck until she's grinding her bum against his hard cock and moaning his name, while holding onto the counter as ordered. Afraid he'll stop, afraid he won't. But oh God, it feels so good…

Molly isn't the least bit ashamed of her fantasies anymore. But she isn't quite sure how to go about making them happen, either.

She looks at the timer on the autoclave and sees that the instruments have finished sterilizing, while she was dreaming and doodling on a memo pad. In bold black ink, she's written "RESEARCH" in large letters and underlined it three times. "Alright, Molly Hooper," she says to herself, breaking the stillness of the morgue.

"Enough dreaming. Time for doing."


	2. Chapter 2

Molly Hooper knew what she wanted and who she wanted; she just didn't know how to get what she wanted. So she did what she usually did when presented with a problem, a challenge, or a new hobby: she went to the bookstore. There unfortunately was no reading material entitled, "How to get the man of your dreams to smack your bum." (Nothing came up when she Googled that query, anyway.) There were several intriguing books online, but she wasn't sure which one was actually useful, so she wanted to browse in person.

 

She strolled through the doors of the spacious chain bookstore, determined not to blush as she passed through familiar aisles into a section she usually skipped over. Doing her best to not look intimidated, Molly traced a finger across the glossy spines of sex manuals, porn star biographies, and nude photography books. Seeing a popular BDSM title that she recognized from her online research, Molly slid the book out.

 

The soft cover depicted a blindfolded and restrained woman surrounded by rows of purple-tinted, bound hands. Flipping through the pages, Molly found the writing surprisingly friendly and not at all sleazy. The doctor in her appreciated the discussion about physically safe and hygienic "playing." Playing, that's what it was called. Molly liked the sound of that. "I want to play," she said aloud, smiling, testing the words.

 

She set her purse on the floor, and stood in the aisle skimming the book, eventually forgetting to feel self-conscious. She'd never realized that the kinky world was so… _organized._ Proper terms and rules for everything, patterns on skin and warming-up rituals. Molly loved a nice set of guidelines in all facets of life.

 

On one page, a variety of tools were described and displayed, including a black riding crop that look just like the one Sherlock brought in sometimes to test theories on the bodies. Molly had never been jealous of a corpse until the day two years ago that she saw Sherlock pop a button off his snug purple shirt because he was cropping the still form so hard. Stopping after a few minutes, Sherlock had then thrown his coat on, tucked the crop handle into a deep pocket, and walked out of the morgue with a sidelong smile at Molly, who'd thought she'd gone unnoticed peeking through the window.

 

A text message appeared a minute later with instructions to let him know what bruising pattern formed within twenty minutes. Until that moment, Molly had no idea that he knew her mobile number. The idea of him seeking out her telephone number made her pink and happy for a good hour.

 

Molly never believed that she was into being hurt; who would enjoy that, right? But after that odd morgue visit, she spent the night in bed fantasizing about him even more intensely than usual. Sherlock warming her bum up with his crop, tight little smacks that stung and made her wiggle and arch and burn…she pleasured herself so long and so well that when she finally came, she nearly fell off the bed.

 

So she thought that perhaps she was slightly more masochistic than she had ever realized.

 

Time flew by in the bookstore as Molly grew absorbed in the exciting world being laid out before her in the book. She was tilting the book sideways to appreciate a bondage diagram when her thoughts were interrupted by a deep familiar voice.

 

"Well hello, Molly. Doing a bit of shopping?"

 

Molly froze, afraid to look up. It can't be. That's not fair. She was utterly exposed. Her thoughts ran together in a rush of _ohgodohgodwhydoesthesethingsalwayshappentome_.

 

She clapped the book shut and looked up into Sherlock Holmes's eyes, her face so hot that Molly knew her cheeks must be blazing red and her eyes wide and blinking too much.

 

Closing the book however just made it worse, as the cover's photo with a nude and hand-cuffed woman told Sherlock exactly what sort of book Molly Hooper was interested in buying, if he hadn't been able to deduce it solely from her reaction. She considered dropping the book and bolting from the store at top speed but instead summoned her courage and stood her ground. Sherlock followed the struggle apparent in her squirming body language and smirked, and tilted his head when she breathed deep and spoke casually.

 

"Yes, Sherlock, I was just…reading a bit." Molly realized there was a book in Sherlock's hands, too. "Oh! Doing some shopping yourself, of course. Good book?"

 

"Don't know," Sherlock responded crisply. "Last-minute present for my brother. John insists that family members are required to buy presents for one another's birthdays and I have been…convinced." Sherlock held up a paperback copy of _Dr. Atkins' New Diet Revolution_ and smiled proudly.

 

"Well, that's thoughtful, I guess. I didn't even know you had a brother! Is he like you then, is he..." How could she finish this line of thought safely-is he gorgeous too? Mad? Heroic? Genius? Does he have a beautiful arse? "Is he nice, then?"

 

Sherlock looked revolted and offended by the question.

 

Flustered, Molly tried to resume her casual pose by reaching down to a lower shelf, and picking up a few more books look at. Forgetting this was the Sexuality section, Molly was surprised to find herself holding, at the top of the small stack, a copy of Tom of Finland's Dick, with her fingertips resting on a beautifully drawn football player's penis. Sherlock raised a perfect eyebrow at her.

 

"OH!" There was a collection of thumps as the pile of books hit the floor.

 

Sherlock made an exasperated noise and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. She was already scrambling on her knees to gather up the erotic art tomes. Shoving all of the books back on the shelf somewhat messily, Molly bit her lip and smiled, and shrugged. This was actually rather funny, she thought to herself. You get to a certain point in being mortified, and then you have to let go. _"Get up and just talk to this man you want like a normal person, Molly Hooper!"_ she berated herself silently. She moved to get up off her knees.

 

"No."

 

Molly stopped immediately and stayed on the floor, but looked up, puzzled.

 

"They don't belong there," Sherlock's crisp voice bit out. His eyes were focused sharply on her again. Now they were an icy grey, with only the slightest blueish-green tint. Without breaking her stare, he spoke with steel in his tone.

 

"Put them in the correct order."

 

Molly bit her lip, feeling something beginning in her belly. She knew that feeling. Usually it's in the lab or in the morgue, when Sherlock is barely acknowledging her presence as she obeys his whims. Humiliation, and the desire to please, and something darker and hungrier, too.

 

She moved the books around on the low shelf until she believed they were in their original order, alphabetically arranged by the author's name. Looking up at him for approval, Molly was rewarded with a small smile, and his eyes were less icy in some way she couldn't quite pinpoint. Less of the cool grey iris, perhaps, and more of the dark center.

 

Molly beams.

 

There was a second when she thought, _this is not the place for this_ , but that whisper of thought couldn't compete with the feeling of being there with him, looking up at that lean form towering over her, handsome with his electric eyes observing nothing but her.

 

Sherlock nodded, and went down on one knee, close to Molly. She instinctively pulled back a few inches from the invasion of her personal space. He leaned in and lifted her hair away from her ear before she could pull away further. Molly felt her heart thumping in her chest, so loud she was sure he must be able to hear it, though she knew that wasn't possible. With his other hand, Sherlock reached past Molly's chest to the shelf. He slid the purple-covered book with the restrained nude on the cover out of the row and placed it back into Molly's hands.

 

"This one is yours, isn't it," he breathed into her ear, as she looked down at the picture of the submissive woman.

 

"Yes," Molly whispered, with the beginnings of a smile. She turned her head toward him, with a question growing in her soft brown eyes. He avoided meeting her gaze, and stood up quickly.

 

"I thought so." And then he's off with a whirl of his coat, out of sight in the labyrinth of tall shelves.

 

Molly stayed on her knees another moment before feeling calm enough to stand. She wasn't quite sure what had happened or why, but confidently strode up to the counter to purchase her book.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Sherlock wants.

The trouble with submissives, Sherlock Holmes reflected as he rode in a cab away from the bookstore, was that the ones he found interesting wanted too much from him. Intelligent, creative and comfortably sexual women were usually not content to be ignored by their dom while he buried himself in an experiment for days, or in a mystery for weeks at a time. Their submission only went so far.

 

Sherlock had learned that no matter how much the woman said she could handle the periodic neglect, eventually she would break down in tears or be angry at Sherlock for not appreciating her submission to him. Or worst of all, she would walk away quietly, disappointed in him as a dom. They said he didn't care, or he couldn't give them what they needed to be happy. They were probably correct.

 

That had been the case at university, and shortly after leaving there, he simply stopped dealing with women altogether.

 

Women were a distraction. There were days when the distraction of a lovely sub on her knees by his chair had been a welcome reprieve from the boredom. Stroking their soft hair and rubbing the tender spots around the ears and neck that made them purr like cats…it was a soothing repetitive gesture that helped him think when Sherlock was pondering an unsuccessful experiment. Like idly petting a cat, except that this was an exciting human creature who would welcome him crushing her down into her narrow mattress after he'd solved the problem. It was exhilarating to take the leftover energy burning through him after a puzzle and thrust it into a submissive girl, making her take it all in and beg for more.

 

Determining how to make a woman submit to him completely was satisfying, but it never lasted long. He usually grew bored after figuring them out, and they rarely had compatible interests outside the bedroom. There wasn't much left to say if they didn't want to discuss the ghoulish murders that Sherlock was beginning to investigate.

 

And the dates, the tedious, predictable, prim and dull dates. Submissive women who were wild when he had them tied to his headboard with soft clothesline cord were suddenly very proper when Sherlock drew them into alleys after the cinema, his clever pale hands rummaging under their skirt, dipping beneath satin to soak his fingers in wetness. He wanted her to be his every moment, not just in the secretiveness of the bedroom. When he wanted his woman, he wanted her right then and there. He didn't give a damn what other people thought. He knew all the dark places to avoid being seen, but the risk was still very stimulating.

 

If he wanted to hold her shoulders firmly, and tell the woman to go down on her knees and suck his cock, he wanted her to say, "Yes, please" happily without hesitation.

 

He wanted her to make him hard as hell, his hands buried in her hair as he's sliding in and out of her throat until he's nearly bursting.

 

To pull her off the ground, turn her around and fuck her from behind, pressing her into the wall. His coat wrapped around them both, the rich fabric of it sliding over her exposed bum and thighs while he rides her ruthlessly in the cool darkness.

 

Her giving everything she has, and him accepting it and demanding more.

 

Sherlock wanted a woman who would give herself completely to him without artifice or reservation, but he also wanted her to surprise him. And that was the hardest quality of all to find. Once you have deduced every bit of information from the lint on their clothes, their condom choice, their perfume, Sherlock could predict every stage of the relationship, from the first hungry fuck until the final awkward pulling-away. No one ever surprised him.

 

Why even bother? Women were mostly a distraction from the work, and ultimately it was the work that kept him off drugs and out of psychiatric ward and jail. He could live without sex or having a submissive, but he couldn't live without the mystery.

 

Sherlock Holmes had done very well in the years since deciding that celibacy was the most effective way to live his life. He lost what little bit of self-consciousness he had after abandoning the pursuit of females. It had always been stressful and problematic, trying to understand other people's feelings and be what others considered "civil." Sherlock didn't much care about being civilized.

 

He lost his path for a short while in narcotics, and it was just as well that he had become celibate; he was a disaster for any woman to be involved with. Part of maintaining his sobriety was not losing control of his life ever again. Focus was essential; the game was what mattered.

 

Running into Molly Hooper in the bookstore wasn't a surprise; after all, its proximity to St. Bart's Hospital was why he had chosen that location. That afternoon, Sherlock had stopped off at the lab to temporarily confiscate a Bunsen burner (John had thrown his in the trash after setting the kitchen table on fire twice in one week; ridiculous, as it was barely a fire, more of a smolder). The lab had been unexpectedly occupied by a flock of medical students examining samples for a rescheduled infectious disease class.

 

Frustrated at being unable to secure the needed equipment, Sherlock redirected his annoyance toward his usual target, Mycroft. It was his birthday the next day, but it wasn't John who reminded him to buy a present. Sherlock never deleted information about his family, even the odious members like his brother. Mummy would be upset by his refusal to acknowledge the day, and life was easier when Mummy was happy. And so he had dropped by the store to do his duty, albeit sarcastically.

 

It was no surprise to Sherlock that Molly Hooper had submissive tendencies; he had exploited those tendencies for the past two years. It had only taken five minutes in her presence before he deduced that she was very pliable to his wishes, but that she was unaware of those desires and not actively engaging in sadomasochistic activity. After two more minutes in her presence, as she chatted about an American television program while removing a murder victim's slashed heart, he deduced that she had had less than five sexual partners, and no more than two of them were long-term. And none of them had ever dominated her properly. She was asleep, and it was not Sherlock's job to do the awakening.

 

Molly had become a constant in his life, the affable pathologist who responded to his unannounced morgue visits with a smile. There was paperwork involved with his visits, sometimes, but she always took care of it. She brought him coffee, and he knew from the scent and taste that she was brewing him a fresh pot every time, and using packets of a high-quality sugar brand she kept tucked in her desk's bottom drawer. He appreciated her efforts, but cautiously. Her crush was obvious but he could not be the man for her. He rewarded her with cool smiles but nothing more. It would've been cruel.

 

She was too sweet- he would drive her away within a week, and then he would lose his pathologist. There were others on staff, but they weren't as observant, they didn't take notes as specifically as she did about bruise shapes. Molly noticed not only what was there on bodies, but also what _wasn't_ there. And sometimes what wasn't present was the key to the puzzle.

 

When Sherlock spotted Molly spying on him two years ago, the first time he had used a crop to test bruising on a corpse, he left St. Bart's as quickly as possible. The avid interest had woken in her eyes, he saw, and Sherlock had the mad impulse to drag Molly into a cleaning closet, push down her scrubs, and use his bare hands to show her what it was to like to feel the hot sting on her arse. Breaking his long celibacy in the most spectacular way possible. Tracing his fingertips lightly across her red hot arse cheeks and making her body shiver and her doe eyes glow, before grabbing hold of her thighs to lift her up and fuck her roughly, at a merciless pace. Holding her eyes the whole time so that she knows only he can do this for her. Leaning in and swallowing the noise of her orgasm, covering her mouth with his when she comes screaming and shaking.

 

But no. Instead, Sherlock rushed out of the hospital and texted Molly from the sidewalk. Sublimating his sexuality into his work had been effective and kept him from hurting women with his neglect. Lust passes. He needed her to stay just as she was. She was perfect this way.

 

None of the other morgue staff made him fresh coffee and tidied up after him in the lab. Sherlock was occupied by his cases, the world unfolding beneath the microscope, pinched between slides and laid out for his scrutiny. Molly took care of the lab housekeeping while he lost himself in cells, and she hummed as she placed tools back into the right drawers and checked her own samples. She would fill up the autoclave carefully, select the correct buttons, and stare dreamily at the wall for a few minutes before resuming her morgue duties.

 

Molly was a dreamer. She was kind and unbroken and uniquely generous, in a city full of absolute bastards. Sherlock being one of them. Sometimes he thought that the only kind thing he ever did for anyone before John came along was not take what Molly Hooper was offering silently, with her huge brown eyes and vulnerable lips.

 

Things began to change not the afternoon in the bookstore, but earlier- the day that John walked into St. Bart's with annoyingly cheerful Mike Stamford by his side. It was the same day that Sherlock had brought his riding crop in for testing a theory about the death of a local private school headmaster and about the accused, a recently fired teacher with a shaky alibi.

 

The first time he'd brought the crop in was two years past, and he had done his best to delete the memory of that day. He failed, but he had never seen that raw sexual spark in Molly's eyes again. Sherlock didn't consider the crop's effect on Molly as he worked the body over. He realized she was watching him and wincing occasionally, but she didn't run away as most people would. And after he was done, she offered him coffee as usual. He accepted and went up to the lab, musing on the strange case he'd just begun.

 

It wasn't until opening the door that he realized how Molly had phrased her offer for coffee. She always offered him coffee. Why would he pay any special attention now? _Sloppy, sloppy._ As the words repeated back in his mind, _"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee,"_ combined with her nervous shuffling, Sherlock had to face the obvious signs he'd neglected to gather and deduce. He had taken Molly for granted and missed that she was approaching him for more social contact. She wasn't content to have a crush from afar. She wanted more of him. A shiver went through him _. I can't,_ he thought _. I just can't_ , and he shut down.

 

He accepted Molly's coffee that day as he assessed his new flatmate ( _hmmm have to do something about the useless cane_ ), said something rude about her sweet mouth, and pretended that the awkward approach had never happened.

 

But he couldn't delete it from his mind, and from that day on, he was aware. Molly ceased to become part of the background and became a person to be noticed.

 

He'd been so caught up in his smug shredding of "Jim from I.T." ( _not very tall, not dom enough for Molly, and oh what's this? Gay!)_ that he missed the deliberate way that Moriarty had inserted himself into Sherlock's life, and the obviousness of the mobile number-leaving. He should have been suspicious, he should have _known._

_  
_

And Molly was hurt because of him. Not physically, but she was humiliated and the whispers followed her around St. Bart's. He had deduced that she didn't make friends easily, had not bonded with her coworkers due to rising to a respected position at a very young age, and that her only true friends were close female friends from university. He had no desire for Molly to become more isolated. She needed to be cared for. She needed to stay just as she was, for him.

 

As Sherlock's short ride to Baker St. ended, he concluded that Molly had changed, despite his efforts to preserve the peacefulness of their arrangement. When he wasn't looking, Molly had woken up and begun to embrace her submissive desires without his encouragement and direction. She was doing it without him; what if she found a dom and became his instead of Sherlock's? _What then?_

 

When Molly stared up at him in shock, in the aisle, grasping the purple-covered book that Sherlock recognized from his uni days, he knew that his excuses for pulling away weren't working anymore. The years of denial fell away, and Sherlock's logical mind broke everything down simply.

 

Molly wasn't frightened by his interest in crime and death; on the contrary, she shared much of it.

 

Molly was very intelligent, and would be a fantastic sub with a bit of training.

 

Molly gave selflessly, and did not feel demeaned by serving him; she relished it.

 

Molly was ready for him.

 

But was he ready for Molly Hooper?

 

Sherlock was surprised and a bit nervous to find that his answer was _yes_.

 

He hopped out of the cab and bounded up the stairs. There was much to be mulled over, plotted. For starters, he needed to order a new riding crop. He was quite certain that the pristine pathologist would not appreciate him using the same crop on her that he'd been using in his experiments all these years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Sherlock considers a date

**I'll see you this evening at 9 o'clock.**

**SH**

**  
**

**I'm not working tonight, Sherlock, Davison will be in the lab.**

**Molly**

**  
**

**I know. I'll meet you outside the morgue at 9.**

**SH**

**  
**

**Oh. Alright. I don't mind helping, no big plans here anyway. What do we need to do at the morgue?**

**Molly**

**  
**

**Wear the long pink skirt. The loose one you wore to Lestrade's birthday dinner last month.**

**SH**

**  
**

**Can I ask why?**

**Molly**

**  
**

**No.**

**SH**

**  
**

****~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~** **

****  
** **

Normally Molly would assume this was part of an experiment and Sherlock needed a specific body or body part to work on, but the skirt certainly wasn't necessary for that. And they were meeting outside the morgue, not in it. A mutually comfortable and safe meeting place then, before moving to another location? Molly was a bit proud of her deducing.

 

Was this some sort of undercover investigating thing that Sherlock needed a woman for? She couldn't think of any other reason why he would need to see her that night, dressed not in work clothing. Molly liked the thought of helping him with a project beyond the morgue and labs. Playing _femme fatale_ , perhaps. It couldn't be dangerous, could it? _If it were, he probably wouldn't invite me,_ Molly reasoned, as her nervous excitement grew. _Maybe he just needs someone to help sneak him into another area of St. Bart's._ But again, she wouldn't need a skirt for that. The white coat and badge worked like a charm for getting into most places. People were afraid of white coats.

 

Molly decided to err on the side of caution and wear ballet flats instead of heels with the ankle-length peasant skirt, in case they had to run. She scuffed up the soles of her shoes too, just to be on the safe side, and made sure her disposable mini-scalpel was still tucked safely in her handbag. She always carried one with her, a girl couldn't be too careful on the tube at night. Pepper spray wasn't legal, and Molly was better with scalpels anyway.

 

Choosing an outfit for a potential stakeout with a man you're mad for is quite tricky, Molly realized, standing before her closet. She settled on an ivory-colored cashmere jumper, for the cool evening. It was loose on her, which normally suited Molly fine. She wished she had spectacular cleavage to push the v-neck up sometimes, but one advantage of her size was that bras were cheap and easy to come by. Her best friend Barb's overflowing shirts drew stares from all the boys (and some girls) at uni, but she had awful backaches, and she was always whinging about how her bras only came in the plainest colors and most boring designs.

 

Tonight, Molly chose a sheer white lace demi-cup bra with a little bow on it neatly between her breasts. Her brownish pink nipples peeked through the lace and over the top if she leaned over. She would try not to lean over too much. Molly smiled at herself in the full-length mirror on her closet door, and idly traced the outlines of her areolae for a moment, before shrugging into her top.

 

Seeing Sherlock without notice always gave her a jolt of electricity, but knowing she was seeing him a few hours ahead of time, it was a slow, tortuous burn. He had been on her mind more than ever since the day in the bookstore a week ago. Something had happened that afternoon, Molly was certain of that, some spark of recognition. She just wasn't sure that it would ever happen again unless she made it happen. She was almost certain he would pretend that he had never seen her reading the purple-covered book that day.

 

She pictured Sherlock turning up at St. Bart's in his dramatic coat that cost more than her entire wardrobe, and wearing a nice suit or maybe an elaborate disguise. (Picturing him hanging around outside the morgue in a fireman's costume gave Molly a fit of absurd giggles.) Telling her the details of the investigation, the danger, what he needed her to do for him, the controlled tones of his deep voice vibrating in her ears. Molly's anxiety began to fall away, and a baser excitement sparked in her.

 

And so she was somewhat surprised when Sherlock met her at 9:04 P.M. dressed as he always was- his flashy beauty of a coat with the collar turned up, black trousers and dark blue button-up shirt. No scarf tonight. His curls were slightly damp and wild as though he'd come to her straight from the shower and hadn't bothered with his hair at all. No effort whatsoever put into his appearance, and it was all Molly could do to not reach up and drag her hands through those curls _. Just once,_ she thought. _Just once I want to dig my hands in there and see if it's as soft and springy as it looks._ The raw wanting made her braver.

 

"Hullo, Sherlock," Molly said a little too loudly in the quiet hallway. "So…is this an adventure we're having?" Dimples appeared in her cheeks, and she laughed mischievously and forced herself to not cover her mouth or turn it into a quiet giggle. _I will show him I'm not a mouse,_ she thought _. I can be brave, and do what he's asking of me._

_  
_

Sherlock was pleased; Molly had stood just outside the morgue door at 9, dressed as he had ordered. The evening was off to a promising start. Pink skirt, ivory-colored cashmere jumper. Soft, warm colors and fabrics. He wanted to stroke underneath the fabric to see if her skin would be equally soft.

 

Sherlock felt a rare moment of uncertainty. What if she didn't like what he planned? Women liked restaurants and films and talking about things, didn't they? Perhaps he should've planned a more orthodox evening. He was badly out of practice with dating. Not that he was ever very good at it to begin with. But he understood submissive women, and he understood scientists. He thought- he hoped- Molly would be happy.

 

"Right." Sherlock cut the silence with a quick but genuine smile. "To the roof."

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

 

The roof of St. Bart's was quite easy to access, as long as you knew that one of the three doors had a broken lock and that the emergency alarm attached to it could be disengaged by placing a weight (a chair, usually) against the sensor of the alarm. Until they got around to refitting the building, as they kept threatening to do in the papers, the lock would stay broken.

 

Sherlock held the door open for Molly, who stepped through with wide eyes. She had never seen this part of the hospital before, despite hearing rumors for years that employee smokers sometimes went up there against hospital policy. She walked cautiously across the roof, until she was a few feet from the edge, and was then unable to speak.

 

Molly stood perfectly still, mouth slightly agape, eyes panning across the night skyline. Her breathing grew deep and slow, and Sherlock disappeared from Molly's mind.

 

It was beautiful. This was a London she had almost forgotten existed, when caught up in the bustle of everyday life on the ground and in the sterile morgue. This was why people still loved the city, still came to London and fell in love and stayed. The taller buildings around Bart's obscured the royal blue sky in some places, but those structures provided intriguing little alleyways and mazes for Molly to peek down into. She saw glowing streets flow between buildings and over bridges, endless strings of light that turned into noisy rows of cabs outside theaters, outside clusters of restaurants and pubs. Looking down at the street, while staying safely away from the edge, Molly could see dozens of people down below. Laughing, shouting, fighting, rushing about and forgetting that this place was magic. They were above the world, up here on the roof, with a slight chilly breeze blowing her loose hair around, and everything was so clear. You could see far across London from the roof of this old building. A sprawling grid where everything makes a sort of sense. _Imagine that_ , she thought.

 

Molly's eyes welled up for a moment, before she laughed self-consciously and looked back, remembering Sherlock's presence. She looked down, smiling, shook her head and looked back at him.

 

"I don't understand?"

 

He smiled crookedly, uncertain again. His curls moved with the wind. "I wanted to show you this."

 

"Show me what?"

 

"What you saw just now. What you observed. Well, you probably didn't notice the man who was about to commit a robbery two blocks down, but…London…it's a great jumble, even once you know the streets. There's always something happening. Seldom boring." He laughed in a careless way that was uncharacteristically boyish. Molly wondered, _Is this the man that John Watson sees all the time?_ This awkward smile that takes away the icy beauty of his cheekbones and makes him human and even lovelier. She was envious.

 

"Seldom boring…well, that's just the nicest thing you could ever say about anything, isn't it?" Molly grinned widely up at him, unconsciously stepping closer. She spontaneously reached out and clasped his upper arm.

 

"Thank you for sharing this with me. I'm still not…Sherlock, why did you ask me to meet you here tonight?"

 

"What page are you on?"

 

Molly wrinkled her brow and dropped her arm. "Sorry?"

 

"What page are you on?"

 

"What page am I on in what, Sherlock?"

 

He tilted his head slightly and his eyes were suddenly cool.

 

"I would appreciate it if you were to not ever play games with me, Molly Hooper. What page are you on?" he enunciated the question carefully, each word a beat.

 

She took another deep breath, and nodded.

 

"148. I've been reading slower than I normally would- lots to take in." She turned scarlet and chewed on her bottom lip.

 

"Stop doing that." He stared down at he mouth, handsome and unreadable, the laughing man gone.

 

"Why?" Molly said, truly puzzled.

 

"Because I should." Sherlock leaned in before she could respond and took her mouth.

 

Molly was shocked again for the second- no, third time that evening. Perhaps a record for the even-keeled pathologist.

 

Sherlock Holmes was kissing her. Sherlock Holmes was _biting_ her. And it was, oh, it was _lovely._

_  
_

Molly opened for him beautifully. After a few seconds of surprised stillness, she wrapped her arms around his neck and followed his lead. Sherlock sucked on Molly's bottom lip, rolling it between his lips, massaging it with his tongue. Sinking his teeth lightly into the spot on her mouth she had been abusing herself a moment ago. Replacing her marks with his. With Molly's sensitive, easily flushed skin he knew her body would mark easily. He would have to be careful.

 

It had been too long for Sherlock. It was supposed to be a brief claiming kiss, to inform her that he was going to be training her, but he needed more, the dam was breaking. As Molly groaned into his mouth and pressed her breasts against his body, Sherlock had the sudden ungentlemanly urge to shove Molly down onto the cold hard roof, toss her skirt up, pull out his cock and brand her as his with a rough fuck. It appealed to his primal side, the hunter who tracked criminals and would take a woman with the same hunger and ferocity.

 

The worst part about that plan was that Sherlock knew she would _love_ it if he took her that way.

 

He would have her on this roof someday, her hair spread over his coat laid out as a blanket beneath her. But not now. Now he cradled the back of her head as he tasted her mouth, and nipped, and drew throaty gasps from Molly.

 

Molly, silly Molly Hooper. Thinking he was someone worth having. What a strange girl she was, really. He didn't quite understand her.

 

How the cheerful pathologist could become a writhing moaning mess in his arms on a rooftop within minutes.

 

How the dazed and happy look in her brown eyes made his cock harder than any pornography ever could.

 

_(Not that he looked at porn anymore, but it was hard to avoid when going through John's laptop.)_

_  
_

He'd expected a protest or two about the semi-public location, but she didn't say a word when he slid a hand down to cup Molly's bottom and pull her tight against his groin for one last kiss. Gripping her bum with one hand, the other still buried tightly in her hair, Sherlock pulled his mouth away suddenly.

 

Molly's mouth hung open, lips glistening and eyes heavy-lidded. Barely any brown left, pupils dilated completely. He felt true regret in stopping, but this wasn't the plan. He had to stick to the plan he'd spent all week mapping out. If he couldn't remain in control of even himself, he'd really lost the knack for being a dom. And he would not let that be the case, now that he'd let Molly know how much he wanted her.

 

Sherlock slid his hand out of the mess he'd made of Molly's hair, and pushed stray strands behind her right ear.

 

"You said something about an adventure earlier?"

 

Molly, still dazed, nodded and stared at Sherlock's mouth. She was considering pulling him down to her again, he knew. _Bad girl. He wouldn't punish her for it tonight._

_  
_

"Well…there's adventures and there's adventures. The night's young."

 

Sherlock led Molly back into the hospital by the arm, and then all the way downstairs, onto the street. Hailing a cab, he held the door for her to enter first. Popping into the car with a fresh burst of energy, he looked over at Molly, who sat quietly, processing the whirlwind of the past half-hour.

 

"Where to?" the cabbie asked. Molly looked up, wondering that herself.

 

Sherlock's mouth curled up at one corner, and his green-grey eyes sparkled. "221 Baker Street."

 

He knew Molly was equal parts excited and alarmed now. It was all there in her body language. She was so wonderfully _expressive._

_  
_

"There's something else I need to show you, Molly."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's first lesson.

Molly veered between wanting to weep with happiness and wanting to throw up. Her stomach clenched, as she tried to calm herself in the back of the cab. Sherlock's thigh brushing up against hers on the seat wasn't helping. But when he did shift naturally away as he looked out the window into the busy London night, Molly felt cold and slid over close to him again. His head turning toward her, his gaze swept down from her eyes to Molly's legs. Sherlock moved his hand down to her thigh, tracing circles lightly as he turned his face back to the window.

 

Molly smiled and tilted her face downward to watch his fingers. Everything he did was so sure and so precise. She would say that he had doctor's hands, only his were so much more powerful and deft than hers were. With his glacier-cool demeanor and clever hands, he would've made a wonderful surgeon. Certainly he would've been a great pathologist if he'd been interested in a traditional career path. For a moment, Molly imagined Sherlock stationed in the morgue in a white lab coat, and her stalking the dangerous back alleys of London in a dark coat with the collar popped up. It was a sexy fantasy but really, Molly preferred to stay in her white coat and Sherlock in his dark trousers and button-bursting shirts. And even in her Sherlock-the-pathologist fantasies, he was still the one in control.

 

Molly giggled. Sherlock looked at her quizzically. Her dimples deepened, and her loose hair fell over the side of her face as she looked down at her legs again.

 

"It's nothing. I was just… my imagination was running away with me."

 

"You do that a lot. Given how often you blush and cross and uncross your legs when you're staring at blank surfaces in the lab, I'd say you entertain sexual fantasies at least every thirty minutes."

 

Molly blushed and tried to think of a clever response, but the truth was, she thought "every thirty minutes" was a low estimate. It was more like every fifteen.

 

"…possibly more. And most of them involve me." He leaned in and lightly kissed Molly's forehead at the hairline. She could feel him smiling against her skin.

 

The cab began to slow down, and Molly's belly seized up again for a moment. She calmed herself with deep breathing, and by reminding herself that nothing would happen that she did not want to happen. She still had no clue what he was planning, but she trusted Sherlock. Granted she was also completely confused by this sudden turn of events, but it was her wildest wish coming true.

 

_Don't overanalyze, Molly. Go with it before he changes his mind or you wake up from the best dream ever._

_  
_

She wished she'd been able to finish the book before he decided to come for her.

 

Only as they were arriving at 221 Baker Street and stepping onto the sidewalk did Molly think to ask, "Will John be home?" If he was, then perhaps she'd read the situation wrong.

 

"No, he's in Glasgow for the next two days." He paused, and smiled directly at her in a wicked way she was still getting used to. "Why? Did you want him to be here?" He whispered in her ear, "Is that one of your kinks, Molly Hooper?"

 

"NO! Oh no no, not at all! Not that there's anything wrong with that, that, that sounds just. Fine. For people. But not me, I like simple. Two is good. Three is too much. I like two, or one specifically. I, I just want you."

 

Molly felt like a fool, but Sherlock looked amused, not disgusted by her babbling. He opened the door to 221, bounded up the stairs and gestured for Molly to follow.

 

She'd never seen the inside of his flat before. It was oddly enough, exactly what she expected. Rich in its darkness and fabrics, but a little worn, comfortably shabby in places. Acid stains and what looked like scorch marks on a clean kitchen table. A very expensive microscope was sat on the table, uncovered. The skull on the mantle and the bullet holes in the wall were perfectly Sherlock. The flat felt very masculine but still warm and homey. She had thought his place might be a bit messier, but she suspected that John was responsible for the tidiness here, the way she tidied up after Sherlock in the labs and morgue.

 

Sherlock briskly took Molly's coat off her shoulders the moment she walked in the door, and hung it up along with his own.

 

"Take your shoes off and sit at the table, Molly. There you go," he said as she kicked off her ballet flats and padded over to the kitchen area to take a seat. An idea began to form in her head.

 

"Sherlock, did you bring me here to help you with an experiment after all? I mean, after…the roof, and everything? The microscope…wait, this isn't one of Bart's , is it? The medical student advisor said he caught you trying to nick a burner last week; is that true?"

 

"No, it's not and yes, it is. Well, not nick. I would've returned it when I was done with it." He paused, and then added, "The microscope was a gift from Mycroft. He said Mummy bought it, but Mummy isn't an expert on microscopes, not her field. I should've tossed it in the bin, but it is an excellent piece of equipment."

 

"It's lovely, Sherlock. Are you…going to show me something?"

 

"Correct." He went over to the refrigerator, and removed a small plastic case and a liquid-filled glass bottle with an eyedropper.

 

On the counter, Sherlock prepared a slide using the unlabeled materials. He brought the slide over to Molly, slipped it into the stage clips and adjusted the knobs until he had it focused how he wanted. He then gestured for Molly to stand and peer into the eyepiece.

 

Sherlock stepped back, hands in his pocket to disguise the nervous fiddling. He waited for Molly's reaction, as she took in the sight, the tiny cells magnified into a dazzling array of electric blue and blood red and grass green that swirled together in a pattern that was almost paisley.

 

"I was experimenting on tissue removed from that fellow who drowned in petroleum. The freak accident at the Priory School. Tried to find a more precise way to estimate time of death using some interesting ingredients sold to me by this Hungarian janitor I know who lives in Birmingham. It was a failure."

 

Molly pulled her eyes away from the colors. "Oh. Wait, a failure? What is this then? The pattern and movement is very strange."

 

"Well the chemicals did nothing productive to help determine the cause and time of tissue death in this case beyond the obvious, well, drowning without the last seven days, which we already knew. But the unusual combination of elements in this case produced a visual effect that was unique. Given your appreciation of "happy accidents" as you call them, I thought that I might show you the unplanned result before disposing of the useless ingredients." Sherlock rushed the explanation out in his usual clipped manner, rolled his eyes at "happy accidents," and then shrugged in a less characteristic way. He breathed deep, ruffled his curls with one hand, and then stared straight at Molly, waiting for a reaction.

 

She paused, processing.

 

"Sherlock, are you saying you showed me this because you thought…it was pretty and I would like it?" Molly asked incredulously.

 

"I- yes."

 

She stared, with a shy smile growing. If she didn't know any better, she would think this was the Sherlock Holmes equivalent of bringing her flowers.

 

Not knowing what else to do, Molly sat back down in the kitchen chair.

 

He walked over to her and crouched down in front of Molly. His dark curls glowed with red highlights underneath the kitchen light. Sherlock placed his hands on her knees and pushed them slowly apart. Leaning into her, he reached up to cup Molly's cheek and guide her mouth down to him.

 

Just before their lips met, he whispered, "Do you like it?"

 

"Yes, Sherlock, yes I like it very much."

 

"Would you rather I had taken you to the cinema? Or…for a pint?" He wore a sardonic smile now. So close to her face.

 

"No. I want to be here. I want you to do...what you were doing before. On the roof. Only this time, Sherlock?"

 

"Yes, Molly Hooper?" He nuzzled her lips.

 

"Do you think you could pull my hair a bit harder?"

 

Sherlock raised his thick expressive brows, but rewarded her courage by sinking both his hands into Molly's hair, and pulling firmly but not recklessly, at her hair. Rubbing at her scalp, mixing in little tugs, using it to direct and tilt her head to where he wanted her. There was an art to it, and the skill returned to Sherlock smoothly after his absence from domming. Molly gave off little mewing cries as he took her mouth, tongue dipping in and massaging hers, matching the rhythm of his hands.

 

Molly's scalp tingled and her face burned with the flood of sensations running through her. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck, pulling him tight. But Sherlock was not having that. He withdrew his hands and used them to grasp her arms and then push them behind her back, holding her tightly by the wrists. All she could do now was lean into him harder and trust her would keep her from falling without having the use of her arms to balance her. Sherlock took the opportunity to nip at her neck, leaving a trail of love bites from under her chin to the edge of her jumper neckline.

 

As Molly's arousal grew to a fever pitch impressively fast, Sherlock realized he had to slow down or the evening would be over within two minutes, on his kitchen floor. He'd only covered half of his plans so far. Though he had learned to adjust ideas in his detecting based on new data, he didn't want his dominating to be so careless. He wouldn't be able to consider himself her dom if he let her overwhelming want derail his plans.

 

He pulled his lips away from her neck and gently pushed Molly against the chair back. She looked slightly wounded.

 

"I need you to do something for me first."

 

Molly was happy to have the direction now. "Yes, Sherlock, of course."

 

"Stand up. Peel off that furry jumper and toss it on the floor. Cashmere makes me itch." His intense eyes burned into her the immediacy of the order.

 

"Oh! Yes of course." Molly's cheeks were on fire, but she pulled the jumper over her head happily. The flat was warm but the sudden exposure left Molly's nipples peaking in her lacy bra. She pulled her shoulders back with a touch of awkward defiance. She wouldn't hide herself away now that he was taking what she had been offering for so long.

 

"Good. Now slip your knickers off, leave them with the jumper."

 

Molly made to pull down her skirt, but Sherlock's narrowed eyes stopped her cold.

 

"I said knickers, not your skirt. Listen, Molly. Have you not gotten to the chapter on listening yet?"

 

He stepped in close to Molly, and tipped her chin up. Modifying his plan slightly ( _minor improvisation is needed on occasion to make the overall plan flow smoother,_ he assured himself), he reached around and unsnapped her bra. He slid the straps down her arms until she was nude from the waist up.

 

Molly looked down reflexively, but remembered herself and looked back at Sherlock. Shoulders back, proud of herself and her body. Her breasts were barely average-sized but she liked them. _He will like them_ , she told herself.

 

Sherlock's face was impassive, his blue-green eyes appraising. Molly could not read him at all.

 

She reached down, pulled up her skirt, and rolled her knickers down over her thighs to the ground, and kicked them to the side, as ordered. She held his gaze the entire time.

 

Sherlock was not feeling as reserved as he looked. What he wanted, it was all here finally. He had abstained for so long, and made sex and domination irrelevant. Now that he let it back into his life, he felt it coming in like high tide. The need rising, the triumphant satisfaction in seeing his submissive obey him sweetly. Not perfectly, not yet, but Molly was ripe. She would respond well to the nudge of his crop when the time came.

 

He led her over to a simple wooden armed chair in the sitting area. He had dragged it into the room after John left, knowing this one would suit his purposes.

 

"Sit. Lean back, relax." Sherlock smiled in a slightly predatory way.

 

Molly shivered. She felt like a mouse about to be devoured by a big cat.

 

Sherlock went to the kitchen and retrieved from a drawer a coil of poly clothesline rope. Very soft, disposable, perfect for his uses. Subs used to come to him at university expecting to be bound in silk scarves and ribbons. Ridiculous. This rope was safer, not to mention cheaper and more hygienic than reusing scarves involved in sexual contact.

 

He returned to Molly and bent down to kiss her lightly on the mouth. He paused and spoke carefully.

 

"Molly, if we start this, it's not going to be easy. I don't mean the rope, I mean, me. I'm not easy. I'm rubbish at people. But I am good at this," he said, waving the coil of rope. "I can make you happy for now, and when I don't make you happy anymore, you can leave and you'll still be my pathologist."

 

Molly didn't know what to say. She bit her lower lip and thought for a few seconds. Then she smiled, and said, "Sherlock, you are a complete prick sometimes. And I might still tell you that sometimes. You know how I feel about you. I can't hide it, I never could and you might break my heart. But if I don't do this now, that would absolutely break my heart. Please. Alright?"

 

He found he couldn't look away from her brown eyes, sparkling with need and-something else, something sweeter. He kissed her again, this time less gently, and more thoroughly. "Alright. Lean back and open your legs."

 

Molly relaxed into the wide wooden seat. Sherlock lifted the bottom of her long pink skirt and bunched the fabric up until it pooled around her waist. She lifted her hips up so he could push some of the excess fabric under her bum. Molly had expected him to ask her to take the skirt off. He saw the question in her eyes.

 

"I've always had a liking for a girl with her skirt shoved up around her waist when I was in her," Sherlock explained casually. "I did years ago, anyway. I wanted to see if it still worked for me. A small experiment. " He added as an afterthought, "And you look nice in pink."

 

Molly smiled and Sherlock grinned in response. All Molly could think was, _what fun!_ She felt beautiful to be open for Sherlock, sitting back and holding her legs open, so the top of her curls between her legs were undoubtedly showing. She felt very womanly, and very naughty to be displaying herself for him.

 

Sherlock began cutting pieces of the rope, quickly and in equal lengths. He had never lost the knack for it, having occasionally restrained criminals over the years. Within two minutes, he had both of Molly's forearms tied to the arms of the chair. It was not a tight binding- she had some room to wiggle and adjust to being bound, but she would not be able to pull them away from the chair as well.

 

Sherlock watched her carefully for any signs of panic, and said, "Isotope."

 

"What?"

 

"We didn't choose a safeword. I meant to in the cab. Your fault, you were teasing me with your thighs. 'Isotope' will do for tonight. Understood?"

 

"Oh yes, of course. Isotope."

 

"Brilliant!" Sherlock beamed in a boyish way that took her breath away for a few seconds. He then lifted Molly's right leg up until it was draped over the arm of the chair, just beyond her arm. He bound that as well, checking the circulation. She had a bit of wiggle room but wouldn't be able to pull her leg down.

 

Molly looked nervous now. She understood. She couldn't choose when to open and close herself with binding on. This is what it meant to commit to being in bondage. She had to trust in the safeword and in Sherlock.

 

She trusted him completely. She relaxed back and her hips tilted up slightly.

 

He saw her acceptance, and her unconscious offering of herself, and so he bound the left leg in the same fashion. She was now completely exposed to him- the darker curls, the moisture gathering, the curve of her bum underneath. He knelt down and studied her with great interest.

 

No, he _observed_ her. She watched him as he learned her with his faultless vision. Every centimeter of flesh, taken in by him. The scent of her musk, the breathy sounds she was beginning to make at the sight of her dom so close but not touching. He had already memorized the curves of her body, and this was the last piece of the puzzle.

 

"This is the first lesson, Molly," Sherlock explained fiercely, when he finally drew his focus away from the intriguing design of her. "You have no secrets from me now. This is mine, while we play. All of you, give it to me. My Molly, my toy."

 

"Your pathologist?" Molly said cheekily, feeling invincible. It was all kinds of wrong, she knew intellectually, but Molly gloried in his claiming her.

 

"Yes, that too, though I can't claim sole rights, unfortunately," Sherlock said lazily, with one side of his mouth curled up. "Mmm very pretty, you are. All over. Molly, I may blindfold you at some point. Is that allowable?"

 

"Yes, yes, of course. That would be… _lovely_ ," she breathed. "But I don't want…gags or things in my mouth. I don't like things that get in the way of breathing." She reconsidered and looked down at Sherlock's groin and giggled. "Well, not _everything._ But um, no gags. Please. Thank you."

 

That she could still be so damn _cute_ even while bound and spread filled Sherlock with a rush of affection. He would really _truly_ try his best to put off disappointing her.

 

Sherlock leaned in suddenly and began doing just _brilliant_ things to her clitoris with his tongue that made Molly shriek. If she hadn't been tied to the chair, her thighs would've closed in reflex.

 

Molly Hooper thought she had imagined every possible raunchy scenario when dreaming in the slow hours at the morgue. She had envisioned positions galore, role plays and costumes, and given a fair amount of thought to Sherlock's crop reddening her bottom. But she had not considered that the simple act of a fully dressed Sherlock Holmes's face being pressed into her lap would blow all those fantasies away.

 

She was completely helpless and unable to assist in her pleasure. It all had to come from him, while Molly moaned and wiggled and begged for more pressure. She couldn't pull her eyes away from that head of dark curls. His burning catlike eyes would frequently peer up at her as his tongue dipped into her folds and stroked, and they would lock gazes until the feelings growing in her belly distracted her. She pulled at the arm bindings, wanting to dig her hands into those curls, tugging him to the right spots. The movement only caused her bunched up skirt to roll down a bit and obscure Sherlock's ministrations. It was frustrating, but then not being able to watch him became another form of excitement.

 

Molly groaned in frustration when Sherlock extricated himself from the falling skirt and kissed her full on the mouth, forcing her to taste herself before she could reach her peak.

 

"Oh fuck it," he murmured confusingly against her lips. She felt his fingers scrambling to undo her bindings. He rubbed her forearms and carefully lifted her legs back down onto the seat. She shouldn't be in any pain, it had been less than nine minutes, but he wanted to be certain.

 

"You're fine, yes good, right?" Sherlock's eyes were blazing, and Molly reached out for him. He took her in his arms, and laid her down on the carpet. He stood, unbuttoning and unzipping as he moved. Normally Molly would've enjoyed a slow peeling-off of Sherlock's gorgeous clothes, but right now she needed him to be skin-to-skin with her, when she was close to the end.

 

Sherlock snagged the condom packet, and made quick work of it. It would seem that he never lost his university-era taste for pretty skirts tossed up around the waist. Rocking into Molly, he gave all he could and she gave it in return joyfully. When he filled Molly with his hard cock, she felt perfectly, deliciously full. It took less than a minute before he was rewarded with her loud moaning orgasm. It shouldn't matter, the volume, but Sherlock liked hearing his little mouse wail without self-consciousness. And with that, he gave in and let himself go completely for the first time in over a decade. His hips jerked as he spasmed and came so intensely that spots danced across his vision.

 

Sherlock collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily into the nape of her neck. Molly stroked his back and kissed his shoulder, the only place she could reach as he was pinning her down. She hoped it would never end, that moment.

 

But it had to. The sweat on their bodies cooled, and Sherlock grabbed his blue robe off the couch and laid it over the two of them. Walking to the bedroom seemed like too much work so they laid there for a few minutes. Sherlock pulled her tightly to his chest as her ragged breathing slowly returned to normal.

 

Brushing his thumb over the faint marks on her forearms, Sherlock informed Molly, "There actually is an experiment I need your assistance with. I've ordered a new tool for it. Due to arrive tomorrow. Beautiful piece. You interested?"

 

"Of course, Sherlock. You know I'm always happy to help." She snuggled her head against his neck contentedly.

 

Sherlock's eyes sparkled. He was quite sure Molly would be a valuable partner in this particular project.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out, and Molly is properly introduced to the crop.

Molly was buzzing. From the tip-top of her head, bouncing down her breasts and belly and legs and into the toes curling in Sherlock's hands, her body was buzzing. Maybe that wasn't the right word for it, there wasn't really a sound. It was like electricity skimming over her but in a gentle, warming way. Still lying on the carpet, she stretched her arms up and backward, enjoying the pull on her well-used muscles, before tucking her hands behind her head again. She felt a tickling sensation high on the instep of her right foot. It was Sherlock's lip brushing over her skin there.

 

"Was it your father who used to take you camping?"

 

"Yes, how did you know he used to take me camping? He loved the outdoors and hiking."

 

"The scar right here. Obviously caused by a camping stove burn, an old model though so I doubt it was recent. Scar's quite faded, too, barely visible, and you were much smaller when it happened. Could have been made by something else with a similarly long burner, but so low to the ground? A camping stove. You kicked it over on accident when you were a child on a trip with your dad. That's a bit of a cheat- from what you've said of your mum over the years, I knew she'd never take you camping and you have little family." Sherlock kissed her faded scar once more, tracing the line lightly with his tongue. He looked up. "Did I get anything wrong?"

 

"It wasn't an accident. I was angry. I don't even remember what it was. Something silly. I kicked the bloody stove and tried to storm into the woods. Except I walked into a tree because it was dark and my foot was hurting because the edge of the stove had burnt through my sock." Molly's body shook with giggles. "I can't even storm off properly without being scarred for life. Came home limping with a giant egg on my forehead." She pulled herself up on her elbows to look at Sherlock, who listened intently while holding her foot and stroking the instep absentmindedly.

 

"Gosh, I must sound like a clod. I promise I'm not the most graceless cow to walk the earth." Molly paused for a moment, and then asked, "Are you done inspecting me, Sherlock? I don't mind it, but I've got to have a pee."

 

"Oh, yes, right, door's there on the left," he said with a gesture.

 

Molly popped up from the floor, still flooded with her sexual high. She practically skipped over to the door. Sherlock appreciated the view of her bum naturally moving from side to side as she walked. He climbed up into his usual chair, letting his long legs stretch out.

 

He rated the evening a resounding success, despite it not going 100% according to plan. There were no significant deviations, and Sherlock had learned to be more flexible in his years as a consulting detective. He wondered if he would be a mellower dom now that he was in his thirties. Interesting thought to consider.

 

Molly Hooper looked into the mirror over the sink and studied herself. She had the same features she'd always had; she hadn't overnight morphed into an alluring mysterious-goddess type. She couldn't rearrange what she saw to come up with a reason for Sherlock Holmes suddenly wanting to make love to her. Or make whatever she ought to call the activities they'd engaged in on the chair and carpet. But there was something in her eyes that was different. She felt calmer, more centered, completely in her body.

 

Molly turned around and peered over her shoulder into the mirror. Her back was dark pink, burned from rubbing against fabric, but she loved the hurt. It was a small price for the indescribable pleasure of feeling Sherlock crushing her to the carpet and pumping into her. Molly tried to not care about things like a man's endowment, but she would be lying if she said she didn't appreciate Sherlock's substantial thickness. Average in length, but oh he could rub her in all the right places on the inside. She was a little sore, but it was the best kind of tenderness. She felt marked. Branded.

 

She didn't understand why she was here, nude in Sherlock's loo, and she didn't know how quickly he would get sick of her, but Molly was determined to make the most of whatever time she had with this gorgeous dominant man who stimulated her from head to toe. She felt studied and challenged and very, very lucky.

 

Sherlock looked like sin itself, stretched out in his chair naked, hands steepled in thought. All long arms and legs, and firm chest and gorgeous cock and those cheekbones, oh those cheekbones moving under his skin as he smiled at Molly's return. She never thought he would smile so warmly at her without asking anything from her, but there it was. She ran over to the chair and stole a kiss from Sherlock before he could refuse.

 

He hauled Molly onto his lap, and kissed the breath out of her and made her forget who initiated the contact. The activities were catching up with Molly, and her burst of energy was fading away. She rested her head on his chest, as he stroked from her head down to the small of her back. He repeated the long caress until he felt Molly's breathing slow and become regular, as she fell asleep in his lap.

 

After ten minutes, Sherlock carefully stood and carried Molly to his bedroom. His bed wasn't very wide, but there would be plenty of room for Molly to sleep, because Sherlock was wide awake. He laid her down in on the plain bedding, with a thin blanket drawn over her, and she murmured something incoherent before curling into a ball and resuming her steady breathing.

 

Sherlock picked his laptop off his bedside table and returned to the living area. His mind was racing with the stimulus of the evening. He needed to break down the experience, analyze the data, catalogue the parts and assign them to rooms in his mind. If he went to sleep, bits would disappear before he had time to examine them.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

 

Molly awoke with the sun shining in her eyes. Someone had neglected to close the curtains. She was disoriented; this wasn't her blanket, everything smelled wrong. Well, not wrong, but different. The evening came back with a rush, and Molly buried herself under the blanket for a moment to process it. Then she sat bolt upright in the bed, realizing she was in _his_ bedroom.

 

Handsome brown furniture. A portrait of Edgar Allan Poe. A periodic table of elements on the wall. Well, that was normal enough. Molly had a periodic table posted in her flat as well, but hers was a colorful laminated option purchased from a hip geek website, with significant scientists' portraits across the top. She stood up gingerly, still aware of soreness between her legs. It really _had_ been a long time since she'd had a lover. _Hard getting back on the horse. Erm, so to speak._

_  
_

She heard voices out in the main sitting area. Sherlock's distinct tones and another that sounded like…John? _Oh hell. Where are my clothes?_

_  
_

Molly wrapped herself with the blanket, and peeked out the door. She saw no one but Sherlock, sitting on the sofa with a sheet wound around his lower body, while holding a laptop. He was talking to John via the webcam. She exhaled a very deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and a sigh flowed out with it. John didn't know about her, there wouldn't be an awkward scene.

 

"Oh! Molly, you're awake!" Sherlock piped up from the sofa. "Fix tea while you're up. Plenty in the cupboard." And he resumed his discussion with John on the webcam; something about a murder in Scotland that looked like the work of pagan cultists.

 

She heard John's distant voice again from the laptop. "Sherlock, did you say Molly? Why is Molly there? Sherlock, why am _I_ here? This D.I. here right now says you called them last night and told them it was the mother covering up an accident with made-up ritual symbols. Why the _hell_ didn't you tell me? Wait, _why_ is Molly waking up in our flat?"

 

"She's here because we had sex last night and she stayed over. Don't ask stupid questions, John. Really must be going. Cheers. Later." Sherlock disconnected, closed the laptop, and tossed it carelessly onto the cushions. He stood up and stalked into the kitchen, letting the sheet fall to the ground as he moved.

 

 _Not going to pretend nothing happened then_ , _I guess_ , Molly thought. Shock was putting it mildly.

 

"Did you just tell your flatmate that we shagged last night?"

 

"Yes. Problem?"

 

"Sherlock, people don't just do that. I mean, some people do, but it's rude. It's _private._ "

 

"Why- do you have regrets? That you haven't put your clothes on immediately suggests to me that you do not, and that in fact, you would like to have sex again. Deducing people's feelings is more difficult than reading their actions. Larger margin of error." Sherlock's showed no remorse, only faint puzzlement. "If we are going to be having sex, I don't see any purpose if keeping it from John. I can't send him to Glasgow every time I want to tie you up and use your body, Molly." He slipped his arms around her waist, holding her tight and kissing her before she could protest anymore.

 

Molly was still pink with embarrassment, but her anger had already faded before his kisses overwhelmed her. He had told John about them because he wanted to do it _again_. Another thought occurred to her.

 

"Sherlock, did you keep him in Scotland a day longer so we could be alone here?"

 

"No, of course not, don't be ridiculous." His wonderfully mobile face wrinkled up in an expression of annoyance at having to confirm the obvious.

 

Molly stammered and said, "Oh, right, sorry, that was stup-"

 

"I sent him to Scotland _to begin with_ so we could be alone here. Solved the case two days ago. It was a 5, but I told John it was an 8." Sherlock's explanation was nearly lost as his lips pressed against the nape of her neck between words.

 

"Oh sure, that makes sense," Molly murmured, though it didn't make sense at all to her. Honestly, it didn't matter when Sherlock Holmes was naked and sucking on her neck.

 

When someone began knocking on the door, she could have killed them.

 

"Yoohoo, helloooo, Sherlock," she heard an older woman call through the door. "Signed for a package for you, dear."

 

"LEAVE IT, MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock barked at the door.

 

"Fine, fine, no need to shout, not deaf yet," the woman muttered as her voice faded along with the sound of footsteps down the stairs.

 

Sherlock hurried over to the door, and reached out to snatch the parcel from the floor gleefully.

 

"Oooh I love packages," Molly said, enjoying the sight of nude Sherlock moving comfortably around the flat. He opened the parcel quickly, and grinned wickedly.

 

"Something for your new experiment, eh, project, is it?" Molly asked, wanting to see what was in the box. She wasn't sure how forward she could be yet with Sherlock. He was clearly, happily, in charge but she didn't know precisely what he expected of her. She erred on the side of caution and stayed still.

 

Sherlock stared down at the box a moment, and then looked up.

 

"You're not due at St. Bart's for a few more hours."

 

"Yes, I have some time if you want to…if you want." Molly blushed and smiled, knowing she probably looked a bit goofy.

 

Reaching into the box, Sherlock said tensely, "Drop the blanket. Hold onto the counter."

 

"Sorry? You mean, just go…" Molly let go of the thin blanket, and pointed vaguely at the kitchen counter, unsure of herself.

 

"Turn around, face the counter, place your hands on the surface and lean forward. Legs apart."

 

Molly felt the flush grow from her face down to her chest. She felt the darker connection growing again, the need to follow.

 

She obeyed.

 

She heard Sherlock come close behind her, and felt something cool and soft slide down her spine and down the curve of her arse, and then slipping between her thighs. A nudge and then a tap on her inner thighs.

 

"Wider."

 

She looked down and saw a small black triangle of leather peeping between her legs. She felt faint and unbearably excited.

 

"I thought a new toy was in order. A gift for us. Now… _wider_." His hand punctuated the order with a smack of his bare hand on her bottom. Not very hard but enough for the blood to rush there, and for Molly to feel wetness forming. She opened more for him. As her legs moved further apart, she instinctively leaned forward until her bum was lifted more toward Sherlock.

 

He stepped back to appreciate the developing scene. Molly responded well to guidance, he'd known that for years. The question now was would she love the reality of submitting to the crop?

 

The first strike of the crop's tongue hit lightly in the middle of her right bum cheek. Molly jumped slightly in surprise before resettling quickly. Sherlock tapped her bottom a few more times in quick succession, stopping to rub her skin. Pinkness formed on the skin but no bruising would form.

 

Molly was relieved that Sherlock hadn't hit very hard. She knew he had a lot of strength in his lean arms, she'd seen that displayed many times in his rougher body tests in the morgue. But he was restraining himself, controlling the force he was capable of. She thought she could take more, much more, of the crop, but she felt safe with him, knowing his great intelligence extended to his sexual play.

 

Sensing that Molly was starting to relax, Sherlock challenged her with more precise blows of the crop of her left bum cheek now, causing her to arch and moan now from the growing sensations. He alternated between the cheeks of her arse, stopping periodically to rub the skin briskly, and occasionally to slap the skin, bringing several pleased "oh!"s from Molly.

 

He cropped and rubbed and smacked her bottom thoroughly until he could see the moisture between her legs absolutely _shining_ and Molly's thighs were shaking with the effort of staying in one place when he was short-circuiting her brain with his hands.

 

 _She's bloody beautiful_ , Sherlock thought. He bit his lip to keep himself from going down on his knees to sample the wet folds himself. Would she be as hot there now as the skin of her arse was? No, he couldn't be on his knees when she was finding her way to subspace. But oh, it was tempting.

 

Sherlock performed one more round of crisp blows of the crop until Molly's bottom was entirely deep pink. No accidental marks on the sides of her hips; he was glad to see he hadn't lost his touch.

 

Molly was breathing deeply, steadily; face down close to the countertop. She gave herself gladly over to his hands and his will. She didn't think, she just responded. It was such a relief. She was free. When the crop stopped, and she felt his hands skimming over her behind with finality, Molly almost cried. She wasn't entirely certain why.

 

The crop was laid on the counter by her arms. Molly felt herself turned around and pulled into Sherlock's arms. A few tears did come then, as he massaged her arms, back, and bottom.

 

"I don't know why I'm crying," Molly said with a laugh. "I'm happy, I'm not sad at all." She was shaking and as she often did during intense moments, Molly began to giggle.

 

"Thank you, Sherlock. It was…it was you," she finished helplessly, not sure where the sentence was going.

 

He kissed her forehead and her cheek. "No, Molly Hooper, it was you." He took her mouth, and held her tight so she was almost breathless.

 

He pulled away and stepped back. "You're going to be quite tender. I held back, you shouldn't bruise and the redness shouldn't last more than a few hours. Your skin is so fair though…Well, we'll see," he finished in his usual clipped voice. He smiled, and took Molly's hand and led her to lie down the sofa.

 

"Rest for a while before you go. What you're feeling…I recall subs being very emotional after playing, but I can't claim to appreciate all of the actual _feelings_. Hormones, endorphins, that sort of thing. You understand the body as well as I do."

 

"Yes," she said dreamily. Her body was still coming down from the high. Her hammering heart began to slow and she relished the gentler warmth now living in her limbs.

 

Sherlock sat on the floor cross-legged like a kid, by where her head rested on the sofa. Funny to see his long legs bent and tangled. _He looks like a giant sexy grasshopper,_ Molly thought and burst into laughter.

 

He raised his eyebrows. She smiled, and shrugged.

 

"It's not always going to be sex I want, Molly," he said. "But it will always be s _omething_. Do you understand?" His changeable eyes were focused intensely on hers.

 

"I think I do," she said.

 

"Good. Because I don't."

 

With that, he scooped the laptop off the cushion, and sat back down on the floor by Molly. Sherlock opened the computer up, and began typing madly, his neck and shoulders tense. As his fingers flew over the keyboard, Molly's hand found its way to his unruly curls and stroked him absent-mindedly. After a few minutes, Sherlock's shoulders began to relax and his typing slowed, though he never pulled his eyes from the screen.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three Weeks

_And so it went for the next two weeks:_

_  
_

Sherlock would text Molly letting her know when he wanted to see her. Molly never said no. She never had to because he had her schedule memorized and never forced her to compromise her work schedule. Of course, her continued good standing at St. Bart's benefited him; couldn't go having his most helpful pathologist get sacked for her taking off during her shifts, now could he?

 

She had lunch with her best friend four days after she first subbed for Sherlock; Barb immediately noticed Molly's happy "I've got a secret" vibe and pounced.

 

"WHO ARE YOU SHAGGING, MOLLY HOOPER!"

 

"What? No, it's nobody…nobody you know. I don't want to talk about it yet." She wasn't ready to share him, or explain how he made her feel. Barb was aware of her longstanding Sherlock crush and thought he was a complete tosser for ignoring Molly. She knew Barb wouldn't understand about the kinky side of things, as well.

 

"Well, what's he do? You can at least tell me that."

 

"What does he do…" A vision came to mind, of Sherlock striding into the morgue unannounced late last night after everyone else had gone home. She barely had time to put down the scalpels that she was inspecting for nicks before Sherlock pulled her into the storage closet, and pushed her to her knees. He had just come from the Yard, having finished a brief case for Lestrade _("Not even worth leaving Baker Street for, even Anderson could've solved that one")_ and he was still bursting with energy. Faced with two more hours of equipment inspection and inventory, Molly was more than happy to unzip Sherlock and take him into her mouth.

 

She took her time with his cock, learning him thoroughly in a way she hadn't gotten to yet. He had spent so much time pleasuring her the other night that when it should have been his turn, he already wanted to be inside her. But now she savored the taste of him, the way he stretched her jaw with his thickness. How he held tight to her hair, guiding her but not yanking the strands. He set the pace with his hands and thrusting into her mouth, but she set the tone with her teasing tongue. It had been so long for Molly, that she'd forgotten that the act could be really fun.

 

Served her right for letting Barb's constant eyerolling about oral sex jade her on the subject.

 

When he came in her mouth, cursing and gritting out her name, Molly didn't feel weak at all.

 

"….he um…He does a lot of things. He's brilliant. Lovely. Mad. Though not in a Jim Moriarty way," she rushed to add.

 

"Right. Well I'll say one thing for the criminal lunatic, he did send you beautiful flowers. Has this bloke sent you any yet," Barb queried.

 

"No. He's not the flower-sending type. He doesn't pretend or do the pointless sorts of things that other men do."

 

"Sure sure. Plus you've already shagged him, so what's he got to woo you with flowers for, am I right?"

 

Molly nodded ruefully and they laughed together. Her best friend was quite blunt and cynical sometimes, but those were qualities Molly rather liked in people.

 

_Two days later:_

_  
_

Just as she arrived at her flat after an exhausting day at work, Sherlock texted Molly that he urgently needed her at Baker Street. Molly rushed over, uncertain if he was injured and John wasn't around, or if he just wanted Molly very much. When she opened the door to 221B, she saw Sherlock sitting calmly at the table, reading a journal article about an interesting larval effect on human putrefaction rates.

 

His eyes flickered over to Molly, who was standing there out of breath and anxious.

 

"I need tea. Make me a pot." And he resumed ignoring Molly, engrossed in the journal.

 

Her mouth dropped open. "You dragged me over here at night for a pot of tea-and you can't even say hello?"

 

He turned his head now to her and stared stonily into her eyes.

 

"Serve me or leave. I have work to do."

 

Molly chewed on her lip for a moment, and swallowed her frustration. She made him a pot and served it in a delicate china set. Sherlock sipped the tea without comment.

 

She moved to leave, and felt Sherlock's hand wrap around her wrist. She looked back.

 

"Take off your coat, and kneel here by my chair. And take your hair down."

 

Molly obeyed.

 

She knelt quietly, keeping her knees tightly together as she sat on her heels, her overall posture firm. As he read and drank the tea, his left hand twiddled her hair, wrapping pieces around his fingers idly. His touch was sensuous, but distant. She felt like a cat being petted. Staying still was a challenge, but she found her center and stayed in that pose, letting Sherlock do what he would.

 

After thirty minutes, he put down his tea cup and closed the laptop. He kissed Molly on the cheek, and told her she could go home.

 

She did.

 

_A week later:_

_  
_

**Mrs. Hudson's just asked me if I was watching a horror show last night, due to all the sounds of women screaming. Well done.**

**SH**

**  
**

**Oh GOD.**

**Molly**

**  
**

**10pm tonight. Let yourself in. John's out. I have plans.**

**SH**

**  
**

**I'll be there, with bells on!**

**Molly**

**  
**

**Not literally.**

**Molly**

**  
**

**Not yet.**

**SH**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

**  
**

_10pm, 221B Baker Street_

_  
_

"Draw the curtains and take your clothes off. Leave them on the chair."

 

Molly obeyed. "In the sitting area again? Have a carpet fetish, do you? Ha."

 

Sherlock curled one side of his mouth. "Have you finished the book yet?"

 

She didn't ask which one. "Yes. I took a lot of notes. I made a list of ideas if you want to see..." She smiled sheepishly.

 

"Email it to me tomorrow. If I don't like it, I'll tell you." As he spoke, Sherlock uncoiled a fresh lot of clothesline rope.

 

Molly grew quiet. She still didn't have a lot of experience with bondage, but was very intrigued by it. Some of the designs she saw online were incredibly complicated and beautiful. Something about ropes made a woman appear to be even more naked when they were partly covering her. Strange that.

 

Sherlock's face was expressionless as he approached her. His eyes were icy grey, barely any green at all. The coldness should've turned her off, but Sherlock at his hardest and most dominant is what made Molly want to drop to her knees and please him. He was wearing black head to toe tonight. She couldn't look away.

 

"Arms behind your back, straight down. Don't extend unnaturally. No talking unless it's 'isotope.'"

 

Sherlock stood behind her and stroked her arms. The pose pushed her into standing up quite straight, with her breasts high. His hands moved up over her arms and down to her collarbone. He could feel her heart pounding. She was anxious, but more aroused than nervous. He encircled both her nipples with his elegant fingers and pinched them lightly, toying until they were hard and she was moaning. She whimpered as his hands slid away from her breasts.

 

Picking up one loose coil of rope, Sherlock began wrapping it around Molly's arms, binding them together. They were snug but he was careful to avoid pressure points. He focused completely on Molly now, creating a pattern of ropes across her arms and then up and down to keep the arrangement neatly together. She was secured, a beautiful package.

 

He turned Molly around and latched onto one dark nipple with his teeth. She arched up as he sucked it into his mouth, his tongue easing over the place his teeth had just lightly scraped. Her other breast received the same treatment in turn.

 

Molly felt utterly exposed again. No secrets, no defenses. She was his now. He saw the surrender in her eyes and dove in for a hard, searching kiss. Her lips felt almost bruised when he pulled away reluctantly.

 

Sherlock slowly unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it to the floor. She loved this part. She loved his neck, loved biting it when he was inside of her. Loved how his chest hair was lighter than his head, and he had just the right amount of hair sprinkled across his body. It always surprised her how muscular he was for such a lean man.

 

His trousers followed. He hadn't bothered with any boxers, she saw. His cock was already hard and ready to be used on her. He held it in his hands, stroking himself until his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Molly watched hungrily.

 

He reached out and slid two fingers into her folds. Checking her readiness while he played with his own hardness.

 

Molly automatically opened her legs further apart but he didn't push in any more. Instead he sat down on the sofa. He plucked his crop and the wrapped condom off the end table. Setting the crop to his side on the seat, he tore open the wrapper and slipped the condom on quickly. Then he said simply, "Come."

 

Molly moved closer. She wanted to ask what he wanted of her, but she wasn't supposed to speak. Submission wasn't easy at times like this. She had to just let go and trust Sherlock to lead. It was a relief to do, once she got past the initial urge to question, at moments like this.

 

Sherlock reached forward and pulled Molly close to him by her thighs. She moved forward to him cautiously, trying to not pull on the arm bindings. He slipped his hand back between her legs.

 

"Do you want to come tonight, Molly Hooper? Hmm? Do you want my cock now?"

 

She nodded excitedly. She wasn't allowed to talk, but he couldn't keep her from grinning.

 

"Then ride me. Climb on and fuck me, Molly."

 

Molly was a bit puzzled as to how she could accomplish it with her arms behind her back. Her brows furrowed and she awkwardly bent a knee and placed it on one side of Sherlock's legs. He smiled like a devil now, at her predicament. Sherlock could be such a right bastard sometimes.

 

Contrary to what some thought, Molly Hooper was not one to run from a challenge. She would not cry uncle (or "isotope," in this case) and she _would_ make this happen. She braced herself on the knee on the sofa, and then quickly lifted the other leg up, tensing her upper body to find some balance. Her other knee landed successfully on the other side of Sherlock. Unfortunately, she toppled forward with her face planting on his chest.

 

"Do you give up?"

 

Molly responded by pulling up her upper body after a minor struggle and balancing herself on his lap. She spread her legs wider for better balance, and let his cock press against her entrance. She threw her hair back and wiggled until she felt him begin to sink into her wetness.

 

"Good, good. If you go too slowly-" He held up the crop and let it speak for him.

 

He let Molly do the work, though his dominant instinct was to grab her hips and fuck her until she couldn't help screaming his name. Sherlock couldn't believe there was a time when he thought that this was a bad idea. He could have been playing games with Molly Hooper for years by now, instead of domming her without sex as he had been doing.

 

Molly plunged up and down, finding it easier and easier as her juices flowed, slicking the way for him. When her pace faltered, Sherlock cropped her arse. She nearly swore, but moved faster.

 

She kept her belly tense and focused on the action on her hips, rolling her pelvis back and forth and leaning forward enough to grind her clit on the base of him. If only she could use her arms…it was prolonging this. He knew it would, of course.

 

Sherlock dipped his head in and caught a bobbing nipple between his teeth. He held it there, flicking his tongue over it side to side while Molly rode him hard. Every bounce on his cock pulled her breasts back, causing more pain. He switched off between nipples now. Molly didn't think she liked that pain at first, and let the distraction slow her. Sherlock punished her with another few lashes of his crop, and she responded beautifully.

 

She found that the more he bit and flicked over her nipples, the harder she fucked him. The intensity built and built until Molly reached her climax with an undignified shriek and she felt as though tidal waves were rippling through her lower body.

 

She began to topple over then, but Sherlock grabbed hold of her. Setting her up straight again, he kept her steady with one hand on her hip. She moved for him, clenching tight and smiling dreamily into his eyes until he picked up the pace suddenly, smacking her arse with the crop with every thrust. Pumping into her hard and making her squeal from his riding crop for another minute, Sherlock threw his head back and came with almost a look of pain on his face.

 

The moment of intensity abated. She laid her face on his chest, gasping. He reached around and untied the bindings on her arms. It hadn't been too long, but she would still be sore because of the very active sex. He briskly rubbed her arms, working them over to make sure the blood was flowing properly. There were indents, grooves, decorating her arms, but they began to fade quickly. He rubbed her bottom which was still toasty warm from his merciless cropping at the end.

 

He loved the patterns of bondage. He'd deleted that. One day soon he would create a rope harness for Molly. She would love it, he thought. She appreciated intricate, subtle things.

 

Molly rubbed her arms and shook herself. She felt like she'd run a marathon only using her abdominal, thigh, and pubic muscles, if that made any sense. She had done well. He had set the challenge, and she had succeeded. Molly Hooper was happy, and began to think about the possibilities that being Sherlock Holmes's submissive offered.

 

 

After that night, Molly did not see Sherlock for three weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns.

_**For three weeks** ,_ Sherlock barely thought of Molly Hooper. The night after he saw her last, a client arrived on his doorstep with an intriguing case. At first glance, it sounded like nothing more than the overwrought imaginings of a successful Cornish watercolor artist, who had retired to a creaky old house in the south of France after the death of her longtime companion. As the woman divulged the strange happenings that had plagued her for months (a portion of a newly repaired roof caving in, knocking sounds in her walls every night, food growing moldy incredibly fast in her refrigerator), Sherlock developed five theories and felt the excitement of a new case growing. This one was _interesting_.

 

The disappearance of the artist's Welsh Corgi had been the last straw that brought her to 221B Baker Street, and the world's only consulting detective.

 

"Brandon was the only one left who really cared about me after we lost Deirdre. Breast cancer, in the spring," his client explained, wiping away tears. "I tried to spend more time with my family since then, but not everyone understood about Deirdre. So I moved to France. We'd always talked about it. Is my home… _haunted?_ I know that sounds silly. Can you find my pup for me? Do you think he is still alive?"

 

"Unlikely, but I'll take the case."

 

John shot Sherlock a scolding look for his insensitivity, and offered the client a tissue and a cup of tea. The trio made plans for the detective and his doctor to travel to the small estate immediately.

 

 ** _Nineteen days later,_** Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson stumbled back into 221B Baker Street, exhausted from a difficult but exciting two and a half weeks of investigation and adventure.

 

Sherlock dropped his traveling case by the door and then collapsed on the sofa. He hadn't slept or eaten more than a handful of biscuits in four days.

 

John went into the kitchen to throw together a quick meal before going to bed. It was amazing he hadn't been sacked from the clinic, as the case in France dragged on far longer than Sherlock's initial estimate. Doctors willing to deal with the rougher patients that frequented the clinic were hard to find, and so far, Sarah hadn't found anyone else.

 

Sitting down at the kitchen table, his mind drifting, a thought occurred to John. He turned around in his chair and called to the man on the sofa.

 

"Sherlock, I know you said it was "obvious" and you didn't see why we needed to discuss it, but fuck it, I'm tired and I don't care. What is the deal with you and Molly Hooper?"

 

Sherlock threw a hand over his eyes and twisted his mouth in annoyance.

 

"Why do you care? Go away, I'm sleeping."

 

"You're not sleeping, you're talking."

 

"Irrelevant in a minute. I'm sleeping."

 

"Don't be a dick. Are you…dating her? I thought that women weren't your area."

 

"They weren't for a long time. But one can _return_ to an area, can't they."

 

"Right. Have you spoken to her lately?" John asked as he tore into his second jam sandwich.

 

"We were on a case."

 

"And it was just a one-time shag, anyway, yeah? So no obligations."

 

Sherlock didn't respond.

 

"Sherlock? It was just a one-off, wasn't it?" He didn't respond again. John walked over to the sofa, still eating, and leaned over to look at his flatmate's face. Sherlock snored unconvincingly.

 

"SHERLOCK. How long have you been seeing her?"

 

The detective gave up the pretense.

 

"Two weeks before we left. I came to the conclusion that I would be able to continue detecting without sexual or sadomasochistic activities interfering with my case work. I took Dr. Hooper up on her longstanding offer."

 

"You mean you took advantage of her crush on you because you decided it was time to have a shag? Why choose the woman who, oddly enough, actually _likes_ you and _works_ with us. Despite you treating her like a maid instead of a pathologist."

 

"But she likes that," Sherlock mumbled sleepily from his place on the sofa.

 

"What?"

 

"She likes it. She likes me. And I don't treat her like a maid instead of a pathologist. She is my pathologist. She does all sorts of things for me. It's quite simple. Go away, I really do need to sleep."

 

"Then go to your bedroom. Or quit being an arse and call your girlfriend. I didn't see you make a phone call the entire trip. I may not be Sherlock Holmes but I can observe the fucking obvious. Do you care about this woman? Never mind, she's too bloody good for you."

 

Sherlock sat upright, narrowed his eyes at his friend, and stormed into his bedroom, with a loud door-slamming.

 

John rolled his eyes. _Drama queen. Wait, did he say, 'sadomasochistic activities?'_

 

_**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~** _

_**  
** _

**_Molly Hooper waited for three weeks._ **

She performed autopsies and filled out paperwork as she always had. She had never been a social butterfly, but she had friends. She went to a hen party and she played with Toby and she watched _Misfits_.

 

She started taking a belly dancing class. She'd always wanted to, but hadn't felt brave enough before. She felt like she could do anything now. She went to class twice a week and wished it were more frequent.

 

Sherlock would probably think it was silly and pointless, but she fell in love with the smooth rhythms of the dance, the natural flow of her hips and stomach and thighs. She wanted to show him what she'd learned.

 

The first few days were nothing. Molly was overloaded at work, and she was too tired to think of Sherlock most of the time. The full moon always brought in a mad amount of violent death, and that meant overtime for her, in the morgue.

 

Sherlock didn't like chatty texts without purpose, and so she didn't send any, though she began to miss him.

 

 ** _A week after_ ** she'd last seen Sherlock, D.I. Lestrade came into the morgue to get a quick overview of a murder victim's injuries. It was potentially connected to another murder that had happened that morning, and he didn't want to wait for the fully typed report to make its way to his desk.

 

After she'd gone over the cause of death and lengthy list of associated trauma, Molly said lightly, "What a mess. Bet you wish you had Sherlock here to help with this one."

 

Lestrade responded absentmindedly, eyes on the corpse, "No, he's still in France on that case, but we _can_ handle the job without him, Dr. Hooper." He winked at her, aware of her crush on the consulting detective.

 

Molly stuttered out, "Oh of course, I didn't mean you couldn't!" and busied herself with another body as Lestrade left.

 

 _France_ , she thought. _He's in bloody France. That's why._

_  
_

**Lestrade says you're working in France. I understand.**

**See you when you get back?**

**Molly**

**  
**

There was no response.

 

And so she waited. He would be back soon enough. This was his job, she understood that. She missed his voice purring commands in her ears, though. It would have been lovely to have some contact while he was away. _I've never even tried phone sex_ , Molly thought. _I wonder if he would…._

_  
_

_**After two weeks** ,_ Molly was squirming in bed at night and sleeping poorly. When it was just a crush, she had enjoyed the brief high that seeing him would bring, and then she'd carry on with her life. But now that she was in love with him ( _yes dammit I do really love this prat I am completely fucked_ ), she needed more of him.

 

Going weeks without feeling his hands buried in her hair, massaging her scalp, without feeling his hands smacking her bum, without his teeth leaving trails of red marks across her neck and breasts. Without his eyes skimming over her, warm green and dilated when he was happy and aroused, and cool grey when she had disobeyed or when he was being analytical, him typing furiously on the laptop while she made him tea. (And she had made him a lot of that; he liked it only in a certain way, and if she steeped the leaves thirty seconds too long, he would have her start over again.)

 

She missed watching his bow moving like controlled lightning over his violin, his hands stroking the vibrant wood and strings in a way that made her jealous. The day after she lightheartedly admitted to that feeling, Sherlock summoned her to his flat at lunchtime, when John was at the clinic, and ordered her to lie on his bed naked. He placed her hand against her own wetness, pushing the tips of her fingers into the folds. Then he jumped up, still fully clothed and grabbed the violin, unleashing a slow, stirring song that she vaguely recognized as Chopin. It made her chest and belly feel tight with the subtle sorrow of it, and then as though she was flying with the high notes, with the twists and turns of his bow.

 

"Touch," he commanded her. "Move." And so she did, arching into her hand and rubbing the bundle of nerves that made her groan. She pled with her expressive eyes for his help, his hands, his tongue, but he ignored her, his attention focused on his instrument. His arms moved gracefully, smooth and then sharply as needed and her hips lifted and fell and lifted again. She followed his rhythms and sped up, working herself into a frenzy as Sherlock's hands flew quickly and the song peaked. He withheld giving her permission to come until she thought she would scream with frustration. Her eyes were bright with need. Drawing out a long high note, he smiled over his instrument and nodded. And then her hips rose and fell and she crested and she cried out. Her racing heart slowed as his arms gradually relaxed, the last notes fading into silence.

 

He told her to get dressed and head back to work since her lunch break was almost over.

 

"Nicely played, Molly," he said wryly, as he clasped her arms, and kissed her on the forehead. He then picked up his violin and walked away playing a speedy solo. He nodded a farewell and Molly let herself out of 221B.

 

She could barely hold a scalpel steady when the memory of that afternoon rose in her mind. She pushed it away ruthlessly to focus on her tasks.

 

Molly could go months- actually years- without sex, but now that Sherlock had shaken awake that need in her to be guided and directed and thoroughly dominated, she could not turn it off as easily. They'd only been playing together a couple weeks, and the scenes they had shared were still fairly mild, she understood. It was only the first stage of her training. She could only imagine how twitchy she'd feel once they- if they- progressed into more intense play, as she fantasized about almost every night.

 

Right now she would even welcome him coming into the lab and making a mess for her to clean up. Tidying up after him like in the old days before he touched her would make her feel peaceful again with the ritual feel of it.

 

She wanted to hear about the cases he was working on. She'd grown addicted to those fascinating little deductions that never made it to John's blog. Sherlock really was incredibly brilliant. She hadn't understood the half of it until the last few weeks. He pretended not to care when Molly would express awe of his skill, but she was learning to read the slight upturns of his mouth when he was pleased.

 

Molly wanted things from Sherlock. The trick was always finding a way to seek them out while not actively disobeying him. She hadn't quite worked out that part yet. Molly sat on her two-seater with Toby in her lap that evening, making a list of possible approaches. Books hadn't been of much help with this conundrum. They all said different things.

 

So she waited for him to come home and come back to her.

 

 _ **Twenty-one days after**_ he left for France and two days after his return, Sherlock Holmes woke up. His body has been completely drained by the case, which involved far more running around than he had anticipated, and he had barely eaten in that time. He had briefly woken up the day before, crammed three sandwiches into his gullet and chugged a litre of water before going back to sleep.

 

The culprit behind the "haunting" had been rather clever. He couldn't wait to tell Molly about it, after he'd had a shower and something more to eat. She would enjoy the details and he suspected she would be interested in the client herself. There was something about the elderly watercolor artist and her gentle, humorous remembrances of her late lover that reminded him of Molly.

 

Sherlock staggered out of his bed to forage for food. Hopefully his flatmate had picked up groceries while Sherlock slept and recovered. A note from John lay on the counter:

 

_Bought milk, crisps and take-away for you last night. EAT._

_Then go see your girlfriend. Honestly what other woman can stand you for more_

_than ten minutes at a time? BUY FLOWERS and maybe she won't punch you._

_You can't go wrong with roses._

_JW_

_PS Did you say sadomasochistic activities or am I losing my mind? Never mind, don't answer that._

_  
_

Everything was clear to Molly twenty-one days after she had last seen Sherlock. She wanted him to be her dom, and she loved having sex with him but she also very much wanted him to be her boyfriend. She really enjoyed talking with him, and he was quite funny in his dark, sardonic way. She didn't need promises of forever. Years in the morgue had taught that her that "happily ever after" could last a day, courtesy of a stray bullet or an aneurysm or a drunk driver.

 

Molly had analyzed her feelings as coolly as she could and realized that she didn't require that much time from Sherlock. Her life was quite busy and in the two weeks of their playing together, her day to day life was mostly the same as before- reading, examining current research, playing with her cat, hanging out with her girlfriends, going to the cinema by herself, and dreaming, yes she still loved to daydream. Having Sherlock in her life made her even more a dreamer, not less, which she found rather funny.

 

She didn't need extravagant promises of forever, but she did want someone- _oh hell, let's be honest_ , she thought, she wanted _Sherlock_ to be a regular part of her life. The two of them fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, easily interlocking.

 

Molly also had to admit she wasn't angry at him for being away for three weeks. She knew she was _supposed_ to be, but mostly she was just worried and missing him. A text from him would put her over the moon with happiness. Molly thought to herself, _Oh quit being stupid and just call him. Text, or do something, you ninny. Be brave._

_  
_

**Sorry to bother. When are you coming home? You never did tell me what you thought of my list of suggestions from the book.**

**Your Molly**

**  
**

She shot off the text before she lost her courage and decided to work on the body that had been delivered that morning to the morgue. Molly got down on one knee to retrieve a hose from beneath a rolling table. As she drew out the long piece of hose, she heard music begin to play, piano and violin softly blending into a familiar tune.

 

She looked up to see Sherlock Holmes standing three feet away and looking down at her. His hair was damp and curling, and his face was as narrow and lovely as ever. He was holding his phone and a bouquet of roses, and looking uncharacteristically awkward.

 

Molly felt a dozen things at once, but went with her first instinct which was to drop the hose and quickly crawl the three feet to grab onto Sherlock's thighs and beam up at him, with happy tears sparkling in her eyes.

 

Sherlock slowly smiled. Tossing the bouquet onto a metal table, and dropping the phone into his pocket, Sherlock pulled Molly to standing and yanked her into a rough, wet kiss that went on and on for minutes, and might've kept going if one of Molly's coworkers hadn't walked in.

 

Dr. Davison, somewhat unprofessionally, uttered, "What the FUCK?" after nearly walking into the obnoxious detective Sherlock Holmes forcefully snogging the hell out of Dr. Hooper three feet away from a bagged body.

 

Molly pulled her mouth away from Sherlock's, and said to the interrupting doctor, "I'm taking the afternoon off. I'm overdue for it. You'll cover, I know."

 

Davison nodded dumbly, still surprised. He wouldn't give Molly hell for taking a day off and she knew it; she'd caught him shagging a lab technician a month ago in a cleaning closet and had politely ignored it then. She was owed.

 

Sherlock picked the bouquet off the table, saluted Dr. Davison sarcastically and then grabbed his girl's hand. He led Molly out of St. Bart's and into a cab. Telling the driver to bring them home to 221B, he sat back, pulled her tight against his side and kissed her soundly.

 

"I missed you." He managed between kisses.

 

"You didn't respond to my first text, weeks ago."

 

"You knew I was in France. You said you understood." Sherlock looked puzzled. He had taken her word for it. Not good?

 

Molly saw then that he truly didn't understand the subtleties of dating interaction. Her frustration over his non-contact lessened. _Well, hell,_ she thought _. I should've realized. I don't know if he can learn, but_ _I guess I'm going to have to try and teach him. He might be a shit boyfriend, but I can't not try._

_  
_

She held his hand, kissed his palm tenderly, and he traced her soft lips. She had such a responsive mouth. He _had_ missed her, when he'd allowed himself to think about her. Which wasn't that often. As stimulating as Molly Hooper was, he still needed to work, and he needed to remain completely focused during that time. He was quite proud of himself actually, how he hadn't let his affection and need for his submissive affect his performance at all in France. He'd proven to himself once and for all that being involved with her was not a mistake. She wasn't a distraction, but a warm room in his icy and orderly mind palace.

 

"Sherlock, what's it called? That song? On your phone." Molly asked, snuggling into him as he tightly held her with one arm in the backseat of the cab.

 

"Chopin. Nocturne. It's meant to be played with piano and violin, but I never play with pianists, too annoying to deal with other people."

 

"That's what you played for me that day…in your room. One of your favorites?"

 

"Not particularly. Good piece, though."

 

"Why is it your ringtone then," Molly wondered.

 

He raised his eyebrows as though the answer was painfully obvious. "Your performance of the piece was…memorable."

 

"Oh." Her cheeks turned dark pink. Molly behaved very un-submissively and dragged Sherlock down to kiss him silly and play with his hair for the rest of the cab ride. He indulged her, since she had waited so long, but he made sure to give her hair a strong pulling while they were at it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution, a little more sex, and Sherlock's present for Molly.

_**"The dog had to die.**_ I imagine that was the beginning of the plan, and it grew from there. The nephew will undoubtedly confirm that when his jaw is no longer wired shut or he's recovered enough to write out a confession. John did quite a number with that shovel when the idiot attacked me."

 

"Oh God, Sherlock, did he hurt you? I'm so glad Dr. Watson was there."

 

"Yes. I should have realized sooner that he was hiding out in the old unused barn on the estate. He did a rather good job hiding himself in plain sight, he was a special effects makeup artist apparently. But that wasn't steady enough work, so he decided to go after dear old auntie's money." Sherlock spoke disinterestedly as his hand smoothed over Molly's exposed belly. He leaned in and tasted her sensitive skin with a tiny lick. "Mmm. It's amazing the illegal lengths people will go to for money when they could simply get a job and earn a comparable salary. Well, almost comparable. The artist is quite famous, worth millions. You might be able to guess to whom I am referring, but I am sworn to secrecy."

 

Molly squirmed and giggled as he touched her belly. Sherlock couldn't see her eyes behind the black satin blindfold, but he deduced that her pupils would be very dilated by now, based on her pulse rate.

 

"She had designated her lover Deirdre to inherit her money if she died, but when Deidre died several months ago, the artist changed her will. A trust was created with the entire fortune to support Brandon, her Welsh Corgi. Ugly little bastard. She kept showing me pictures and crying. John cooed over them quite a bit," Sherlock added scornfully.

 

Molly stretched her arms, adjusting herself to find a more comfortable position, though it was somewhat difficult with her wrists handcuffed to the bed. With a complete disregard for his expensive head- and footboard, Sherlock had drilled holes into the wood to attach oversized eye hook loops for securing ropes or cuffs. When Molly entered his room earlier, she'd noticed that the fresh new metal hooks drilled into several places on the wall, low and high. It seemed that she'd only seen the tip of the iceberg when it came to Sherlock's creativity with restraints.

 

"So she was going to leave her money to the dog. Why did the nephew think that getting rid of the dog and making her think the house was haunted would help him, though?"

 

"Isn't it obvious? Try harder, Molly." He pinched her nipples to emphasize his point.

 

"Well if she doesn't have a dog, she'll change the will and maybe it will be to him? That still seems like a big what-if, Sherlock. He's not her only family, right?"

 

"That's why we have the 'hauntings.' I told you she spent time with her family after her partner died. She was lonely, she reached out to the only people in the world left to her, though they couldn't be bothered with her when her lover was alive. She spent the most time there with her lazy but creative nephew then. He saw how wealthy she was, and most importantly, learned that her dog was now the heir to a fortune."

 

"Oh that poor woman! Just wanted a bit of company, and someone kills her dog. That _is awful_."

 

"Always go straight for the sympathy, don't you, Molly." Sherlock smiled down at his girl, who always thought of others' pain first.

 

He thought the artist was rather blowing her attachment to Brandon the Corgi out of proportion until John pointed out that the dog was most likely a surrogate for the affection she could no longer shower on her lost love, Deirdre. Sherlock thought that was utterly stupid.

 

"I suppose I do. I'm not sorry at all. And the weird things happening on the estate?"

 

"He had disguised himself as one of the repairmen working on the roof, and he sabotaged it after it had been inspected. Trying to scare her back to Cornwall and the family home. When that didn't work-for a quiet and crying sort of woman, she is remarkably stubborn- he kept at it. Used his disguises to access the home in a variety of ways, making strange noises when she thought she was alone. Oh, except for the refrigerator, the moldy food. The thermostat in it was broken, kept going up and down without reason. Old house." He shrugged. "She bought a new appliance, everything 's fine."

 

He hadn't thought the artist's refrigerator was that bad, but John was mortified by the level of mold growth. It was lucky John didn't really know what was growing in all the containers in 221B's refrigerator.

 

"I like hearing about your cases, Sherlock. Next time, will you please call me or text when you aren't running from a murderer or something, and let me know how it's going?"

 

He kept on as if she hadn't spoken, and smoothed his up, down and between Molly's thighs as he explained. "I had worked out that the culprit was most likely a relative who was removing the fiscal threat of the dog before we left Baker Street. I didn't think it would take more than three days to unmask the person behind it. I failed to deduce his disguising abilities. He hid remarkably well. Turned himself into several different employees and visiting artists from the nearby colony. The man's an outstanding makeup artist. He'll be invaluable doing prison theatricals."

 

Sherlock unbuttoned and removed his shirt, tossing it onto the floor. Trousers and boxers followed. He crawled onto the bed and knelt between Molly's legs, which were spread wide and secured at the ankles with cuffs as well.

 

Molly licked her lips nervously. Her stomach muscles tensed as she felt the weight shift on the mattress as he came closer to her body. She kept shivering, though she wasn't cold at all. Sherlock's soothing voice had lulled her into relaxing and enjoying the sensual touching, but now she felt exposed again, open for his pleasure. She was blind, and his voice and hands were her entire world now.

 

She heard his voice again, now closer, and felt his curls brush the underside of her breast as his body pressed closer to her torso.

 

"And so…he wanted to drive her home, where he could resume his friendship with dear old auntie, who shared his artistic tendencies, and worm his way into her will. He should have cut his losses and left when I turned up, but no. Greed seems to have won out. Couldn't neglect the time he'd invested in scaring her. I think he intended to do nothing but observe, but us hunting him down drove him to act with violence. He cracked under the pressure of the waiting game. As many do."

 

She felt the crackling energy coming off Sherlock. His retelling of the adventure had excited him, though his controlled voice didn't betray that. She felt it in the driven way he touched her now, the need to conquer again being focused onto Molly. She wanted to take that livewire energy into herself, let him pour it into her. She was ready. Painfully aroused, if she were honest with herself. She had passed from need into desperation halfway through the story.

 

"Do you know, Molly," he said as he squeezed and sucked a nipple into his mouth, "I quite like the list you made for me, of ideas. But nothing is going to be exactly as you suggested. Need to keep you on your toes, you know, otherwise you'll get bored."

 

" _I'll_ get bored with _you?_ " Molly squeaked out.

 

"Mmm yes. Are you bored yet?" She could hear a smile in his voice. "Are you so terribly bored that you'd like me to hop off and uncuff you and never smack your arse again?"

 

Molly laughed, and gasped when his teeth sank into her neck, nibbling and sucking and kissing, as his groin ground against hers, until she was begging for him to finish it.

 

" _Please,_ Sherlock, do it now, _please_. Oh God, _just fuck me._ " Her body strained upward, her wrists and ankles now fighting the cuffs.

 

She was flawless in her need, Sherlock thought. Completely honest and sexual and happy and generous and warm. That was Molly.

 

He pushed his cock into her folds with a rough thrust that forced a high-pitched 'oh!' from her mouth. He began moving hard right away. The buildup had been torturous for him as well. He tried to control the pace, to draw out the pleasure and pain for Molly, but he found himself giving into every animal urge he had, and simply _fucked_ his woman.

 

In her body, Sherlock Holmes lost himself for a time and lived in her heat, her skin, her submission and need. He was almost afraid to admit how happy it made him.

 

Molly Hooper lay breathing, eyes closed under the blindfold, her abdomen still rippling from the orgasm that had rolled through her. Her skin was tingling and Sherlock lay on top of her, his breath heavy on her neck. He kissed her mouth again, soft and slow.

 

He silently got up and retrieved the cuff keys from the bedside table. He loosed her wrists and ankles, and rubbed the skin. There were grooves and some redness that would last probably until tomorrow. She had gone so wild at the end that she pulled on them too much. Perhaps he should have tied down her midsection as well. That was something to consider for next time, Sherlock thought.

 

He rolled Molly over on the bed, onto her stomach, and began to rub her shoulders, which were a bit sore from having her arms stretched over her head. She groaned happily.

 

"Thank you," she breathed into her pillow.

 

He rubbed her shoulders and back, moving down to her bum. He did love these curves, the natural slopes of her body, the width of her ass, cupping the cheeks and smacking them to test the bounciness.

 

"You know, those cuffs look real, Sherlock. They don't feel like the fuzzy pretend ones for sex."

 

"They are real."

 

"Like really real? Where do you buy real handcuffs from?"

 

"I don't. I steal them from Sgt. Donovan when she annoys me. I've got a drawerful of them in the kitchen."

 

Molly laughed hysterically, and Sherlock found himself joining her after a few seconds. He continued touching and playing with her bum.

 

"Having fun?" she asked.

 

"Mmm yes, very much. " Another smack on the bum. This one harder. "You have a lovely arse, Dr. Hooper." He bent over and precisely bit her on the right buttock. She reflexively moved away from his teeth.

 

"Don't want my mark then? Too bad." Sherlock reached over to the bedside table and pulled a rose from the bouquet they'd carelessly tossed aside in their eagerness to get to the bed.

 

"I don't think you care very much for roses, Molly. You didn't shriek about them as I've noticed other women do," Sherlock observed.

 

"Oh they're lovely. I just don't really put much stock in flowers, I guess? I really really do appreciate it though, Sherlock. I know it's…hard for you to…remember those sorts of things," she rushed out. "But I think men mostly buy flowers for women when they've botched something up. Roses are…they aren't precisely honest are they. I remember Jim gave me roses. I guess I think of them as being…about expected romance and not something real. Oh God, but I love that you brought me them, I…I keep saying the wrong thing. I always do, why can't I say the right thing?" She buried her face in the pillow and shook her head.

 

"Because the 'right' thing to say is often not the honest thing. So John tells me." He kissed the small of Molly's back tenderly, and licked experimentally. Goosebumps arose on her arms and legs. _Interesting._ He made a mental note.

 

"I would rather you were honest with me, Sherlock. I know that it will probably hurt, you have said terrible things before…but I'm so tired of lies. I don't need roses when we're together. I just want _you_."

 

"Right." He stripped the dark red petals from the flower and let them fall to the floor, and climbed back between Molly's legs. He placed a hand on her bum, telling her nonverbally to stay as she was, on her belly. She understood.

 

He kissed her bum cheeks, still pink from slapping, and dragged the thorny stem of the rose over the tender skin.

 

Molly almost bucked from the sensation but the presence of Sherlock's hand reminded her to stay still. She trembled as he again drew the thorns over her bottom, scratching her lightly. The third time, he pushed harder, leaving tiny white scratches across the reddening skin.

 

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he had an idea. He sat up straighter and held the thorny stem in a tighter grip. He moved the thorn purposefully over both bum cheeks, in a pattern Molly couldn't quite put her finger on.

 

When he was done, and Molly nearly wiggling her arse with the sensations, Sherlock dropped the stem, and pulled Molly to standing. A bit too quickly, and she staggered into his arms, giggling. She was still wobbly from the restraints and play.

He held her close to him, and then walked to stand in front of the long mirror. He turned her back to it, and told her to look. Molly craned her neck and squinted, and Sherlock pushed her closer to the mirror. She could see, neatly scratched into both cheeks on her arse, the white scratches turning into bloodless red lines, the letters " **SH**."

 

Molly stared for a moment, and then wrapped her arms around Sherlock joyfully, pulling him down to her.

 

"Stealing kisses is hardly disciplined, Molly Hooper." He admonished her, holding her back.

 

"Oh! I forgot…sorry." She still had a lot to learn. Sherlock would tighten the discipline now that she was certainly his. Although there was one other detail to take care of, in that regard…

 

"Molly, I've got some errands to take care of, and Lestrade needs me to check in today. He's utterly helpless without me. The Yard's gone to hell in the last few weeks. I'll see you tomorrow. Sorry, I really have to go."

 

Sherlock dropped her arms and began throwing on his clothing. He was so quick, burning with his new idea, that Molly barely had her bra back on before Sherlock was running out the door.

 

"Let yourself out whenever you like, gotta go!" he yelled as he ran down the stairs, taking the steps four at a time.

 

"Well. That was…that was very Sherlock."

 

"And now I'm talking to myself. Right."

 

She looked at herself in the mirror again, the edges of the scratched initials barely showing beneath the bottom line of her knickers. She looked thoroughly shagged and exhausted, with her mascara smearing and a knot of hair sticking up in the back.

Molly shrugged, and got dressed. She tied her hair back and went home to feed Toby, who was probably shredding her new issue of _OK_ magazine as a penalty for her being late with his supper.

 

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

 

 _ **She turned up at work the next day**_ and said hello to Dr. Davison in the hallway as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened the day before. He treated her more cautiously than usual. It was as though her being involved with the mad brilliant detective lent her an air of unpredictability. He hadn't expected to find Dr. Hooper with a man like that. Not after the last one- they all knew about Jim from I.T. being some sort of fraud, though the details were sketchy. Apparently she had a taste for dangerous men. Interesting how you can work with some people and never really know them. Molly Hooper was a mystery. Davison was impressed.

 

She noticed Davison treating her differently. To put it succinctly, she didn't give a fuck. He was a bit of a pig, with his glib chatter. He was a solid pathologist though, she would admit. He was very good with grieving families who came by to i.d. bodies. That's what really mattered.

 

The pathologist was settling into her morgue routine and humming as she examined stomach contents, when Sherlock breezed into the room without knocking, as usual.

 

Now when she watched him enter, there was no hurtful longing or defensive feelings. She still felt the need to offer her assistance on whatever he was there for, that instinct would never go away.

 

He looked down briefly at the open abdominal cavity Molly was working on.

 

"Excellent cut, Molly. I'd know your work anywhere." He kissed her cheek lightly and put his hands in his pockets.

 

She blushed. "Oh thank you. I do like a tidy cut, it's so much easier to clean up after and make presentable for the families."

 

"Stop for a moment?" He raised his eyebrows, to emphasize that it was a question and not an order. As much of a pain as he was in the morgue, he never ruined an autopsy for her.

 

"Oh sure, that's fine. He's not going anywhere! Ha ha. Um, yes. Anyway."

 

Molly washed up her hands at the sink and rushed back to Sherlock. No one else was around. She slipped her hands into his coat and wrapped her cold hands around his narrow waist. He smiled coolly down at her.

 

"I have a present for you. If you want to wear it. If you don't, I understand."

 

He steered her over to one of the handwashing sinks. Someone had stuck a small mirror up above it, something more appropriate for a teen's locker.

 

He pulled a plain package out of his pocket. She unwrapped the beige paper and found inside a jeweler's box, a few inches squared in size, with the name of a famous company on it.

 

"What is this?" Molly asked.

 

"Open it. Wear it, please."

 

She slowly lifted the lid and looked inside. Nestled on the white bedding was a necklace with a charm. She drew it out, letting the charm dangle at the bottom of the chain.

 

Sherlock explained, in his clipped and hurried way, "You don't like gags. You don't like things that obstruct your breathing at all, ergo you would not respond well to or even be able to wear a collar. I thought this might be a suitable substitute."

 

Hanging on the delicate chain was a perfect little replica of a padlock, made of white gold. Engraved on the surface on the lock was **SH**.

 

Her mouth moved but nothing came out. She held it and looked into Sherlock's eyes, which were electric green and wider than usual.

 

"Molly, will you- do you _want_ to wear it?"

 

"YES. Yes, _of course_ I do. I. Yes, _please._ " And with that, he took the necklace from Molly and manipulated the tiny clasp far faster than she ever had in her life.

 

He turned her toward the little mirror on the wall, to show her the necklace. It was loose enough that it wouldn't choke her, but it would not dangle low when Molly was working on the bodies. It was the perfect length to stay neatly under her tops. Of course, it was the ideal length, it's bloody Sherlock Holmes. He would know.

 

Molly touched the padlock and smiled at Sherlock in the mirror. He smiled back, and exhaled heavily.

 

She turned around and threw herself into his arms again. He kissed her hair and squeezed her so tight she was breathless. She lifted her head up, asking with her eyes, and his lips met hers.

 

She lost track of time. She felt his arm roaming over her neck and chest, feeling how his lock sat on her. She wrapped her hand around the charm, and he covered that hand.

 

"I've never done this part properly before, I never even wanted to collar anyone before. And I don't know how to be someone's boyfriend. I don't know when I'm supposed to call. I'll try." Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height and the intensity blazed in his eyes. "Do you still want me, Molly?"

 

Molly beamed at him and nodded quickly. "I'll teach you, Sherlock. I'll teach you if you teach me, okay?" She started to tear up then and he kissed her senseless to make them go away.

 

He saw happiness and love in her eyes and for the first time, he actually wanted to believe that someone could really love and trust him. Love was a useless emotion; why want it? But when he looked in her eyes, he thought he would feel ill if he didn't see those emotions shining from her. He didn't know what that meant yet.

 

Molly Hooper knew that she was on a strange and rough road with Sherlock, but she was incredibly excited about the adventure she was beginning. This thing growing between them, it was another mystery; one that she might be even better at solving than the great Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
